Eleanor Rigby
by Bicoastal
Summary: A change in the weather brings two very different people together. BLH Moved to new account
1. Default Chapter

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com

Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. 

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**_All the lonely people_**

Where do they all come from ?

All the lonely people

Where do they all belong ?

--John Lennon/Paul McCartney, _Revolver_

**BRASS**

I remember how it started.

Not the way you'd think something like this would—with some dramatic news breaking case, some amazing event where I got to be the hero and she was forever grateful to me—nah, that's my fantasy, and while it's a good one, it's definitely make-believe.

The truth? It started small.

Ordinary.

Now those are words I ever associated with her, to be honest. When I thought of her, (which was in fact something I did now and again,) she always had that mystique thing going. Even in my head, I thought of her in those first impression terms: sleek. Unobtainable. Amazingly sexy. All those aspects I wasn't supposed to notice let along react to.

See, cops aren't supposed to be impressed by anybody. Hell, that's the first rule they teach you at the academy right off the bat. Nobody is who he or she seems to be, and you aren't really yourself behind a badge either, so it's all a big bluff.

Most of the time I get away with my part of it, and come across as the hardass, the heat, the Man—all those labels that I've worn for so many years I can almost feel the weight of them on my skin sometimes.

Anyway.

It started small and ordinary. I was heading home after my shift, thinking about what the hell I'd need to whip up something halfway edible. I pull into Corti Brothers market, grab a cart and slowly work my way up and down the aisles. Out of habit I check the layout, the exits, the other patrons. At this hour of the morning there aren't too many, and the few that are here are either night workers like me, or insomniacs. The only one worth noting is a woman standing at the wine section, perusing clarets, by the look of it.

Then I look at her again, and realize exactly who she is, despite the jeans and long sleeve tee shirt. She's got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and none of the spooky make-up on now, but it's Ms $3.95 per minute herself, Lady Heather.

I'm stunned. Honestly, I didn't think she ever left that gothic cathedral of hers, just had things delivered. I sure as hell never thought of her as the type to wander around Corti Brothers like those of us in the mundane real world, but that goes to show you about those damn assumptions. I take a minute to reassess her as I lean my forearms on the handlebar of my cart.

She's still striking of course. No problem there. A little on the tall side, but the figure's the genuine article, curvy and trim. Even here in the supermarket she's got that way of standing absolutely still and letting her eyes do all the moving. No jewelry, and a standard purse of brown leather.

I give myself permission to look a little more. Why not? She's facing the wine rack, and the view is just as nice back to front if we're being honest. Normally I try to keep my lecherous instincts in check, not that it's easy in a town like Vegas, oy! But it's not everyday I get to ogle a known dominatrix either.

And then she turns. Thank God I have my gaze at eye level and I have some practice in bluffing. Nonetheless I still feel like one of Grissom's bugs, pinned on a wall when those dark eyes hit me. Recognition first, then a little annoyance and finally amusement, all flickering by in a fraction of an instant before she settles on a nice neutral expression.

I nod.

She nods.

I wish I could say something nice and easy, something that might take some of the awkwardness out of the moment. Mostly I stand there, wondering what the hell Grissom did to piss her off so much. Pulling a warrant on her was pretty rough, but under that I sense some personal issues that I hope to hell aren't going to bleed through to me. We did what we had to do. At least, I did.

Now I'm thinking Gil did a bit more than his duty.

She nods once more and steps past me, a selected bottle in her hand, not quite dismissing me, but making it clear we're not going to be chatting. I can live with that, and turn to head to the frozen foods, trying not to smirk cynically, thinking about how I can drop my encounter into a conversation later.

Hey, you'll never guess who I ran into today--

But nah—the only person I could say that to is the last guy who needs to hear it, and while I'm not known for my tact at times, I try not to be needlessly cruel either.

So I finish up my shopping and head for the checkout, contenting myself with the promise of a nice spaghetti feed within the hour. I pay up and head out to the car just as the rain starts.

Rain in Vegas is truly a freaky deal. We don't get little showers or sprinkles or light stuff like the rest of the country, noooooo. When it rains in Vegas, it's usually an all out cloudburst. One minute dry, and the next, BOOM, it's Noah let me in the damn ark. I load the bags and get in, pull out of the lot but I'm still pretty damp, which is not a good look for me. The radio is a screech of static, telling me the storm is right on top of the city, and the highway's cleared out pretty fast since most folks have enough sense not to hang around places known for flash flooding.

Then I see the little green Miata on the side of the road.

Oh boy. It's a convertible, and the top's down. I'm betting it's stuck because the driver's out on the far side struggling with it. If it was me, I'd be cursing up a blue streak knowing the interior was flooding; you can suction the water out, but the mildew factor is ALWAYS a bitch afterwards and believe me I've pulled enough cars apart in Trace to know that first hand.

I pull over. I don't want to, but I still do. I'm not wearing my shield at the moment but I can still feel the damn thing sometimes, compelling me to do the right thing, so even though I could just go rolling by, I stop about six feet behind the Miata and climb out, cell phone in hand, ready to render assistance.

"Need some help?" I call through the grey sheets of rain as I get closer. The figure comes into focus, and it's a woman. My, my, yes judging by the wet cling of her shirt definitely a woman. I don't need the distraction at the moment, so I blink a little.

"We meet again," comes a faint mocking tone I well remember. I sigh, and Lady Heather looks up at me from the other side of the car.

Oh man. She's wet. I mean REALLY wet. Not that I'm drier standing here in the monsoon staring at her. The rain makes her hair almost black as it clings to her skull, and I'm not going to think about how transparent that shirt is now, so I give a nod.

"What's wrong?"

"I have no idea. The engine died, I coasted to the side of the road and then the heavens opened up. Because the car won't start, I can't get the top up." She replies succinctly. I glance at the back seat, at the lumps of wet paper bags sitting there—her waterlogged groceries.

It strikes me as funny that she'd even have groceries. I mean, she's the queen of most men's deepest darkest fantasies—what does she need with paper towels or stewed tomatoes or Ritz crackers, right? But I can see the goods, getting soggier by the minute as we stand there, and the sad sight of them gets me moving. I hand her my cell and start reaching for some of her purchases.

"Get in my car, call Triple A or whoever you need to while I get these out of the rain," I tell her as I begin scooping things up. Sensibly, she follows my directive and I start hauling stuff to my car, dumping it in alongside my own groceries. A few cars are hydroplaning by, passing us quickly in the storm, eager to get out of the deluge. By the time I'm done, at least two inches have come down, and the ground's a muddy mess.

So's Lady Heather, but on her it looks good I note as I climb in the driver's side and wipe my face. She's got that wild woman thing going with her hair in wet tendrils on her neck, and drops falling from her lashes. And don't even get me started on her lips. Grissom wasn't kidding when he told her she had lovely ones; I'd thought so myself but was smart enough not to get caught staring at them. And here they are, wet and slick with rain, naturally plump and much more appealing than they have a right to be—

"Thank you," she sighs at me in that kooky formal way of hers as she hands my cell phone back to me, "but the storm seems to have disrupted the service area."

"Not a surprise I guess. I'm sorry about your car. I can recommend a good auto shop if you want to get the interior redone along with the engine."

She arches an eyebrow at me, and for the first time I see hints of a genuine smile at the corner of that mouth. Not a cynical one either, but real amusement. She looks a lot younger.

"How very gallant of you, Mr. Brass. I had no idea your sense of duty extended beyond your working hours. This is an intriguing aspect of you."

I shrug, complimented and slightly insulted at the same time, and grip the steering wheel, gazing out into the grey mist beyond the glass.

"It's called common decency and I'd like to think everyone has their share of it," I mutter, wishing I had a towel.

"An optimistic hope, although not a very realistic one, especially for this city," she replies knowingly.

I shrug.

"Well, I don't want to leave your car sitting here without a tow coming, so unless you're in a hurry to get home we're going to have to wait the storm out a bit and try calling again."

She lifts her chin, staring out the windshield; still elegant despite the drowned rat look we're sharing. Now that we're in proximity like this it's much tougher not to notice the wet tee shirt. I reach behind the seat and pull out my windbreaker, handing it to her wordlessly.

"Thank you . . ." she tells me, slowly draping it over her front. I try not to be smug about it, but some of that leaks through as I drum my fingers on the wheel.

This is so surrealistic. I'm stuck in a car with a dominatrix.

A wet, beautiful dominatrix.

I sigh and keep looking out the window. Next to me, she laughs softly.

"Believe me, this is as awkward for me as it is for you, Mr. Brass," comes her low musical voice, "I'm not in the habit of needing rescuing."

"Now that I can well believe, Lady Heather."

"Please—just . . . Heather, for the moment," she shoots back.

"Ah. Well in that case, I'm just Jim then."

"Jim," she echoes, as if trying it out. It sounds different coming out of her mouth, and I give an encouraging nod.

"Jim."

"It suits you. Strong and to the point. Very apropos."

"Thank you, although I can't really take the credit. My mother had a hand in it."

She laughs a little, relaxing against the car seat, and for some reason I do too. I didn't realize I was tense. She draws a breath and lets it out again, slowly.

"I'm sorry, but it's hard for me to picture your mother, let alone you as a baby. It's a very difficult concept to visualize."

She's smiling now, and it's an amazing sight. I can feel myself returning it, draw by the power of her amusement.

"Judging from the photos I've got, my hairline is about the same now as it was then, although I HAVE put on a few pounds and have more teeth since my initial appearance."

"And certainly possess a better dress sense, although—" she hesitates and I don't want to lose the momentum of this conversation so I give her a slightly resigned gesture to continue, and she adds, "—I suspect your overuse of brown is an attempt to foster a sense of trustworthiness not always in keeping with your occupation."

"Busted," I freely admit. Any first year psych student knows a brown suit is a deliberate attempt to avoid appearing as an authority figure, and obviously Heather here has done her homework.

Heather. Already with the first names. Is this getting surrealistic or what?

She tips her head down a little and murmurs so softly I almost can't hear it.

"I apologize. I had no right to criticize your personal style. After all, costume and presentation are as much a major factor for my profession as for yours. What are we, really but what we show the world?"

It's a nice little apology and I turn to look at her while I try to figure out what to say. I notice that sitting, she's not nearly as imposing as when she stands. That her wet skin smells nice. That her mascara isn't waterproof.

"Heather, you've got my number so let's not worry about hurt feelings here, okay? I'm pretty easy to read and certainly nothing you haven't seen before in hundreds of other men, and the only real difference is that I KNOW how smart you are. I respect that, and although you may not believe it, I respect you. I also know you probably don't particularly care, but it's worth it to me to let you know that, all right?"

I can see she's a little startled, since this is not only more than I've ever said to her in our entire acquaintance, but also that I mean every word of it.

And I do. I've looked at the underbelly of society for a whole lot of years, and while my sense of values has shifted a bit, my pragmatic nature tells me that I can't take things at face value, not on the streets, baby. Dominatrixes are people too, with soggy groceries and runny makeup and sneaky senses of humor.

She smirks. Those full lips pull back in a quick flash of humor and her shoulder shake silently. I play along.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting that. Particularly after the last time we met."

I have to tread carefully here since I can sense the undertones of bitterness in her voice. I give a gentle shrug. Let my voice stay low and light.

"I don't hold grudges—they're counterproductive in my business. Did you want to try the tow company again?"

She takes the proffered phone once again and taps in a number while I take a moment to shift in my seat. Damp down to the boxers—yeesh. Not my shining moment here by any means. Heather reaches someone and mutters soft quick instructions into the phone, her voice precise. Within minutes she hands the phone back.

"Triple A will be here shortly, or so they claim. I'm sorry you're uncomfortable in your wet clothes but I do appreciate the rescue."

"Thanks. This only delays my spaghetti marinara by about an hour, so I'll live—" I tell her. Across her face flits an expression I catch out of the corner of my eye and it knocks me on my ass.

Wistfulness.

I didn't get it wrong, I know I didn't. It's an expression I've seen it on Sara's face pretty regularly. Sometimes on Grissom's. Once in a while on Catherine's.

I look at her, not speaking, just letting my eyebrows go up a tad. On cue, her stomach rumbles and I can't quite NOT grin. She does too, dropping her face shyly.

Woo, a girlish Dominatrix. This day is just FULL of surprises. Very carefully I make it a point to look back out at the rain as I ask, "You like spaghetti?"

"I adore spaghetti."

"Me too. I use fresh Italian sausage with oregano and rosemary, then add a nice Chianti in the sauce—but there's always a problem," I ramble on, sighing. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Heather fighting another smile, but she dutifully takes the bait.

"I don't understand how a recipe like that could possibly be a problem . . . Jim."

She's making the effort, bless her. This is starting to be fun.

"The problem is that by it's very nature, spaghetti can't be made in small quantities. My mother never made it for fewer than six people, and I'm the same way. So I'm going to end up making enough dinner for a week unless you're willing to take a plate or two off my hands."

I risk a look at her; after all, what's the worst that can happen? She says no thank you and that's the end of it, right? I still get a good dinner either way.

She's looking back at me with those eyes, and despite the runny mascara, and the wet hair she's smiling again.

"You're inviting me to eat spaghetti with you?"

"And bread and salad too although we may have to scrounge for dessert, but yeah. I'm hungry, from the sound of it YOU'RE hungry and I wasn't kidding about the quantities. You'd be doing me a favor by tackling some of it."

"I'm tempted," she replies, still formal sounding, but with a thaw in her tone and I nod slowly.

"I know it would tarnish your reputation to be seen with me, but I won't tell if you don't—garlic, mushrooms, black olives—"

She gives a little groan that turns into a chuckle and I know I've got her. No chicanery works better than the promise of good food, and in all honesty I actually CAN cook.

"I wasn't worried about my reputation, but yours, Mr. Brass. However, my appetite is a bit stronger than my common sense at the moment and I would always regret passing up a chance at a good spaghetti dinner," she decides.

That makes me grin. I manage to get it under control by clearing my throat and striving hard for nonchalance.

"Done deal then."

At that point I can see the bright lights of the tow truck through the downpour, pulling up just ahead of the Miata, and I shoot Heather a mournful look.

"No point in both of us getting out again—where should I tell him to tow it?"

She mentions a garage off of the south end of Fremont. A good place with a good rep. I wait a beat and speak up again.

"Look, I'll get you home, so you don't have to ride with the driver or call a cab if that's all right with you."

She looks at me with those serious eyes and waits a moment before speaking.

"I appreciate the choice, Jim. That's not only considerate, it's quite kind of you."

What can I say to that? My parents brought me up with manners, and even though those little courtesies have taken a beating in this modern world they still come through once in a while.

Thank God the cleaning women came. As Heather and I bustle through the door, trying to hold the dissolving paper bags and avoid any more rain, I'm completely grateful that Dolores and her sister have once again done their weekly magic, turning my house into something fairly dust-free and habitable. The two of them obviously made it in and out before the rain, and I can smell the faint scents of Pine Sol and Air freshener. Heather moves without a moment's hesitation towards the kitchen, leaving me to trot behind her, struggling not to drop anything.

"I think we may have our groceries intermixed," she comments, setting things on the breakfast bar. I set down my armfuls just as the bags fall apart, scattering goods everywhere and she hides a smirk at this unexpected slapstick.

I sigh.

"Let's bring them all in and sort them out, then. I've got enough bags so we can repack yours."

"Commendably sensible," she agrees, gracefully squatting down to collect cans and boxes.

It takes two trips to load them all in, and in that time Heather's got the heater going, the lights on, and has started sorting not only her groceries but mine as well. I just shake my head.

Can't fight that X chromosome I guess.

"In the guest bedroom, first door down the hall—I've got some dry sweats that will probably fit you, and we can get your stuff in the dryer."

She hesitates for the first time, and I can understand. Strange apartment, casual acquaintance who's supposed to be a good guy, but what do you know about him really—so I hand her the cell phone and move to the bag of tomatoes, sorting them out. She takes the phone from me and turns it over in her hand. I glance up briefly at her.

"If you don't call someone to let them know you're here, I will, " I tell her flatly. She looks at me, cocking her head and the tension goes out of her shoulders.

"I trust you," she tells me. I roll my eyes to the ceiling, mostly to hide my sense of relief. It dawns on me that for some damn reason I want to make a good impression on her.

"I trust you too, but I'm lousy at chicken soup."

"Chicken--?"

"Matter of logic. If you stand around in wet clothes you're going to catch a cold," I grumble, setting tomatoes aside and reaching for my cluster of oregano. She lifts her chin and shakes her head.

"I have Magyar blood in me. It tends to intimidate colds and lesser viruses, although I call it a draw with allergies."

A Hun. Yeah, I can see that, particularly in the eyes, the spirit.

"Ah. I repeat—down the hall, first door, help yourself to anything in the dresser or closet, except for the Santa suit or the dress blues."

She goes off chuckling and I feel better as I set to work on the sauce. I should change too, since I'm dripping puddles on the floor around me, but all in good time. Once I get the sauce to simmering I can think about towels.

Chopping, chopping, chopping. The majority of good Italian cooking starts with chopping. Vegetables, spices, herbs, meat, all of it in neat even bits. Toast the oregano, oil down the herbs, sear the meat. Add the onions to caramelize and put the pasta water on in another pan. Add the meat, taking care to peel the sausage out of the casings. Lower the heat; simmer the meat for a while. Gently add the tomatoes, the paste, and the other vegetables, cover and let marinate together—

I can do this is my sleep, although it's not recommended. I look up as I finish with the last of the mushrooms and Heather's back, moving around the breakfast bar, sniffing curiously as I study her.

Now I know why they're called sweats. The University of Boston top is tantalizingly baggy, offering a hint of nicer features than I ever filled it with, and as for Ellie's old pants—well, let's just say they cling. Nicely. VERY nicely. Oy!

"I hope your daughter won't mind my borrowing these," she tells me softly. I freeze for a moment, and then shake my head.

"She won't mind," I reply in a voice I hope makes it clear not to ask. She doesn't, and I'm grateful for the moment; not everyone would get the hint. Instead, she lays a hand on the counter and looks at me.

"What can I do to help?"

I know she means more than just the dinner, so I look at her and hold her glance for a moment. Beautiful eyes. A man could fall into that glacial blue and just drift away. I shake my head.

"Salad's your department, if you're so inclined. I warn you though, I don't DO alfalfa sprouts."

"Neither do I, although the appropriate verb is eat, " she chides teasingly. I arch an eyebrow at her.

"Moot point since I don't have any, and I hope that doesn't break your heart."

She makes a moue and leans closer to me.

"To be honest I have no appetite for anything that resembles alien pubic hair."

That's when I almost gash my thumb with the knife, laughing.

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**HEATHER**

The only problem in dealing with dragons day in and out is that it doesn't prepare you for the occasional knight who shows up on your behalf. And it's clear that Mr. James Brass is a knight of the old school. I'd forgotten men like him existed; kind without ulterior motives, unassuming and yet sharp enough to see the nuances of every situation. It's unsettling.

Unnerving.

Intriguing.

This is a man I've been condescending to and dismissed the last two times we've crossed paths, a man I never gave much thought to or about, and yet he's the one who rescued me from drowning and offered to cook dinner for me, all on turn of serendipity and a change in the weather.

I could have said no. I should have said no. The Las Vegas Police Department and its employees are not on my list of favorite people at the moment, certainly. And yet sitting in that car, looking at James Brass so wetly chagrined, so modestly mild as he made his pitch, I couldn't turn him down. After all, it WAS spaghetti, and I've got my priorities. Let the Lean Cuisines sit in the freezer at home; Mama Marazek didn't raise a fool for a daughter.

Or maybe she did, but I've wised up since then. Certainly Jim Brass is no threat to either my health or wealth, not with that teddy bear demeanor and sly sense of humor. He's made me laugh three times now, and it feels good, it really does. I can't remember the last time anyone did that for me.

I can't remember the last time anyone cooked for me either, and oooooh the scent of garlic and tomatoes is making my stomach rumble.

"Can't even begin to tell you how flattering that sound is—" he murmurs as he drains the pasta. I'm blushing, I know I am. Ridiculous! I've seen grown men in tutus, couples that wear diapers to achieve sexual fulfillment and my own hunger is embarrassing me.

"I haven't eaten much today," I offer lamely. He nods, but I can see a flicker of a twinkle in his eyes.

"I'm sure not many pizza boys make it out your way."

"Those that do we chain up in the basement."

Did I just say that? He's chuckling again, and it's a good look on him, makes him loosen up. He's pulling plates from a cupboard and handing them to me, clearly in charge of the dinner. "And on that note—you can set the table while I open the wine," he asks mildly.

We sit, we glance at each other, neither quite sure who should start, and we smile, picking up our forks together.

The first bite is amazing. I taste the rosemary, oregano, garlic and basil, all of them a lovely symphony of rich flavor and I bliss out a bit. When I open my eyes, Jim is looking at me with an odd expression I cannot quite define; an amused humbleness that reminds me I haven't shared my opinion yet.

"This is fabulous."

"Oh good," he responds. His modesty isn't for show; it's ingrained in the man. I twirl my fork neatly in the pasta, trying to coat it with as much of this incredible sauce as I can without looking too much like a pig.

"Is this an old family secret?" I venture, then stop, hoping that it doesn't sound as if I'm hinting for the recipe. Jim raises his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth go up as well.

"Actually it's an ongoing experiment. My mother taught me the basic sauce, but I've been refining it to my own tastes. Sometimes I'm in more of a garlic mood, sometimes it's allspice and onion."

"Variations on a theme," I like that. It would be so easy to believe a man like this would be the type to simply dump a jar into a saucepan, and yet I keep relearning that assumptions are dangerous.

We talk of little things: where to buy good produce, and how to tell if a zucchini is ripe, and the grocery strike last year, and through it all I sense an odd buoyancy to our conversation. I've eaten an enormous helping of spaghetti now, and the salad about does me in.

Jim is looking down at his plate, resting his fork on the edge of it and sighing.

"The rain has stopped, and so has the dryer," he comments. I cock an ear, startled at his perception. He must have an ongoing sense of acuity constantly on the alert, picking up details around him that most of us miss. My compassion for him rises as I realize what a burden that must be.

It dawns on me that I like Jim Brass. Certainly I like this shy, private side of him, and a part of me hopes, just a little, that this invitation wasn't just out of pity on his part.

"The meal was wonderful," I assure him. He pinkens a little, but his smile is mild.

"It was a good batch. And as a door prize, you get to take a generous serving home for making it through the monsoon."

"Then it was definitely worth the aggravation. I haven't been this well-fed in ages," I reply.

Clean up is quick and full of little jokes; Jim relates his ongoing battles with his ancient dishwasher, and efficiently washes everything by hand, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his actions efficient and well practiced.

I dry. I stand next to him, wiping down dishes and pots with a terrycloth towel, feeling younger and more contented than I have in a long time in this little familiar domesticity. Jim shoots me a glance and shakes his head.

"What?"

"Oh just thinking if anyone had told me a few hours ago that I'd have a beautiful dominatrix drying my dinner dishes, I'd have checked them for ingesting illegal substances."

I smile, wiping down one of the wineglasses.

"And if anyone had told me that I'd not only have dinner with a homicide detective, but also secretly lust for his marinara sauce—"

"You lust for it—wow. I'm gonna have to put that in my diary," he tells me with as straight a face as I've ever seen. I feel the laugh bubbling out of me, and he grins in return.

As he packs up a Tupperware container full of fragrant leftovers I carefully cork the wine and set it into his refrigerator, trying not to snoop too much, but there are touches even in here that are Jim Brass. He chills his bagels. And his peanut butter! I pull out the jar and look at him.

"You know this doesn't need to be refrigerated, don't you?" I ask him. Jim looks wary and curious.

"It doesn't?"

"No, actually. The oil in it inhibits mold and bacteria, and as long as your pantry doesn't get too hot, it's much better on the shelf. Stays much softer and easier to spread."

"I did not know that—" he mutters, taking the jar from me and staring at it. I fight the urge to laugh again at his wondering expression. He shoots a look at me, one of mild exasperation.

"This little piece of info could have saved me years of shredded bread, you know—"

I reach up and lay my hand on his shoulder, and at the moment of contact we both twitch a little in surprise, but neither of us move away. I give the strong muscle there a light pat, fighting the urge to linger in that touch.

"Jim—" I whisper softly, "—Deal with it."

He rolls his eyes.

When the cab rolls up, I almost resent it; the past two hours have been wonderful in a way I never anticipated in the least. I'm back in my newly washed and dried clothes, with my groceries, a container of spaghetti and better outlook on the rest of the day. Jim is smiling at me shyly again, his hands in his pockets. I don't know what to say, how to thank him for the lovely gift he's shared with me.

"I had a wonderful time."

"Me too." A man of few words, but the sincerity is there. I look him in the eye and suddenly I know just what to do. What I'd like to do.

"Are you free next Friday morning?"

He blinks, not expecting this at all; outside the cabbie is looking at me expectantly and I give him a nod that I'll be right there.

"Friday?"

"Yes. I'm sure by then we'll both be out of spaghetti, and I was thinking you might like a change of pace. I'd love your opinion on a particular dish I do . . ." I trail off, waiting to see if he's interested. Certainly hoping he is.

He clears his throat and I can see faint traces of embarrassed pink along his face, so I hurry on before he can turn me down.

"Please. Then you can pick up your Tupperware too."

That little practical note is all I need. He nods tightly, a glow in those fine indigo eyes.

"Sure. What time?"

"Around eight is fine. I'm sure you have the address—" I begin out the door to the cab. Jim escorts me out and sees me into the cab, not speaking but watching with a calm expression on his face. As the cab pulls away I don't look back.

And it's odd, because I truly want to. 

**See Chapter 2**


	2. 2

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

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**Chapter 2**

**Heather**

Sometimes being a symbol is a real bitch.

I let the car door slam, recognizing my own aggression but too impatient to do anything about it, and hit the alarm button on the keychain. Certainly, the garage door is sound, but a little extra protection never hurts. Key in the lock--open the kitchen door--dump my bag on the counter and walk towards the glow of the living room light. It's on a timer--I hate coming home to a dark house.

I sink into a chair and hiss at the aches. My neck is kinked and throbbing, but turning it doesn't get rid of the cramp, so I flip up my skirt and start unlacing my boots. The laces snap from their grommets, and for each little crack I remember another thing that went wrong tonight.

The three customers--_three_--who cancelled at the last minute.

The customer who arrived drunk, and had to be removed.

Fortunately, he hadn't got out of his suit yet. Discretion is easier if the client is dressed the way he came in.

My hosting provider's meltdown. wasn't down for more than a couple of hours, but sessions were interrupted, and that means refunds. And paperwork.

And I had to give myself an emergency injection.

I curse a little under my breath at that one, and grab the roller off the side table, dropping it to the floor so I can run my foot over it. Stilettos are a way of life, but after twelve hours straight no heels are comfortable. Of course, the roller doesn't begin to compare with my massage therapist...but Jen's a genius.

An injection. I can't believe I was so careless. Tonight was chaotic, yes, but I should not have forgotten my snack time. Every aspect of my work requires scrupulous attention to detail, and yet I forgot something so basic--

I sigh, and move the roller to the other foot. My morning pre-bed routine calls, but this night isn't over yet. For a moment, I come very close to picking up the phone and asking the gallant Captain Brass if we might reschedule our dinner.

But no. I know him too well already. He would interpret the question as a request that we terminate this tentative friendship, and I owe him--for rescuing me, for feeding me, for treating me like a human being instead of a symbol. And I always pay my debts.

So I set aside the promise of ten minutes spent doing nothing under a rush of very hot water. My shower is short, instead, and I spend it thinking about Jim Brass.

I _like_ him. I can't deny it. I have to smile at the memory of him soaked and blinking in the rain, a sharp contrast to the sardonic cop that was all I had seen before. I'd taken him at face value then, and it had been a mistake. One I don't intend to repeat.

There's no one reason why I agreed to join him for dinner that night. Hunger, certainly, but the crackers in my purse could have handled that until I got home. It was more the weariness around his eyes, the same hint of loneliness that is so familiar to me.

And he smelled good, there was no denying that. The rain brought out the scent of cologne and maleness in the confines of the car; he smelled clean, without the musty scent so often found on men who live alone. Warm and attractive.

I glance at the clock as I step out of the shower, and realize I have to hurry. Slacks and a dark blue top are dressy enough to receive visitors but easy to clean if I spill something cooking, and I braid my hair back to keep it out of the way as I walk to the kitchen.

Captain Brass fed me with a family recipe; tonight I will show him one or two of my own heirloom foods. _I hope you have an adventurous palate, Captain_. The smoothness of Cole Porter fills the kitchen as I sauté mushrooms and onions, and their scent mingles with the green smell of cucumber when I peel the vegetables. The work is relaxing; after a long night spent controlling other people, it's nice to come home and _create._

The doorbell rings as I slide the fish into the oven, and I wipe my hands and pass them over my hair, just a little nervous. I don't have visitors often; even more rarely are they attractive men.

It's obvious that the attractive man standing on my doorstep went home and changed first. His shirt is crisp, the top button undone, and his jeans are well-worn. He's holding a bakery box, and his smile is deepening the lines around his eyes. "Good morning," he says, and I can't help but smile in return.

I step back a pace. "Do come in, Captain Brass."

"Jim, remember?" he says, moving past me; his eyes flick around the room, and I wonder if it's curiosity or the cop in him.

"Jim, of course." I close the door, noting the tension in his stance. "I assure you, there are no whips over the mantel or chains under the couch."

He wheels around, eyebrows going up. "Sorry." He clears his throat. "I never know quite what to expect from you, Lady H., but I wasn't expecting those."

I feel a pulse of shame; I was teasing, but only partly. "Heather," I correct. "I apologize. It's been a long night."

His gaze is dispassionate, almost as though I am again a potential witness, and then he nods, softening. "Know the feeling. Here." He holds out the box.

I take it, touched. "You didn't have to bring anything."

He shrugs lightly. "My mother taught me it's polite to bring the hostess a present," he says, and now he's teasing me. I lift the lid; the box is filled with lacy, doily-like cookies.

"Pizzelle?" I ask, but Jim shakes his head.

"Krumkake. Like pizzelle, but no anise."

"They look delicious. Thank you." I close the lid and wave him to the kitchen. "Come and have a glass of wine."

He seems to relax a little as he settles onto a kitchen stool. "Nice setup you have here."

"Fantasy pays well." I set down the box. It's odd to have him here--usually if I'm sharing my kitchen it's with Zoe--but it's pleasant.

"I know you're diabetic," Jim adds, shifting a little on the stool, "but I talked to someone and he said you could eat sweets."

I pause with one hand on the refrigerator door, surprised that he remembered my condition, but my mind goes to the most obvious, and unpleasant, possibility. "Not Mr. Grissom, by any chance?"

He snorts, and I turn to look at him. "Give me some credit," he says wryly. "I asked the medical examiner." He folds his hands on the counter, forming a knot of short strong fingers. "I don't know what went on between you and Gil, but I figured he was an idiot. Again."

_Oh, indeed he was._ I open the fridge and pull out the bottle chilling there. "He was just doing his job," I say coolly. Gil Grissom's blunderings are not something I care to discuss.

"Yeah, well, for Gil doing his job sometimes gets in the way of being human. Can I open that for you?"

"By all means." Grateful for the change of subject, I hand him the bottle, and his eyes drop to the label while I find a corkscrew and glasses.

"Madroña, 2002 Chardonnay. Never heard of that one."

"It's not a well-known vineyard, but I'm very fond of their wines."

He uncorks the bottle with the ease of expertise, and pours two glasses. I take one and touch it to his. "To your health, Jim."

He grins, and his eyes are definitely twinkling. "Salut." His brows go up again as he sips, this time in approval. "That is pretty good."

_He has taste, at least._ "I think so." I set my glass down--the rest will have to wait until dinner--and go back to my cucumber.

"So what's cooking?" he asks. "It smells great."

"Fish baked in sour cream. I hope you're hungry, Jim." I can't help daring him a little, and his grin widens. "I don't cook small either."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Brass**

_So far, so good._

It's usually a good sign when a woman's smiling. And there are the dimples, too. The wine's good, almost nutty, and Heather looks different yet again. You'd never guess that her usual outfit is something most women wouldn't wear outside the bedroom. It's as interesting to see her in her own kitchen as it was to see her in mine.

She's shorter, too. Those heels she wears boost her up till she's my height; without them, she's still tall, but not quite so imposing. Her feet are bare tonight, and somehow...they're cute. Little pink feet with pink nails.

She's scooping cucumber slices into a salad bowl. "Can I do anything?" I ask, and she looks up again, those dimples getting deeper.

"I have it under control, I think." I skip the obvious joke about control; I doubt she'd appreciate it right now, even if she's more relaxed.

So am I, and I have no doubt she can tell. After all, it's her job. But it's mine too, and it was kind of reassuring to see she was just as nervous as I was. Dumb, sure; what the hell did we have to be nervous about? It's not like we're dating, or even friends really. But there you go--human nature.

"How is Ms. Willows?" she asks, surprising me again.

"Cath? She's fine." I take another sip of wine. "You two know each other?"

She shrugs a little. "Not really, but I remember her from your investigation of Mona Taylor's murder. I liked her." She starts slicing a onion. "She was forthright."

"That's Cath," I agree. "She's seen it all and then some." I lean my elbows on the counter.

"As have you, Jim?" She's arching those brows at me, her lips pursed a little, and I can see the humor in her eyes.

"Oh yeah. Twice over." I smirk at her. "Just like you, I bet."

This time she chuckles. "At least twice." She dumps the onion in the bowl and begins on some garlic. "We're in similar positions, in a way, you and I. We both see sides of humanity that are normally kept hidden."

I sigh. "Some days I wish they stayed hidden."

She doesn't answer, only nodding in a way that makes me think she knows the feeling. "Long night, you said," I prompt, wondering if she'll bite. Her Dominion is legal--that became obvious when we first started investigating Taylor's murder--but I figure there's plenty of things she won't want to talk about with a cop.

Heather's silent a minute, then shrugs again. "Just too many annoyances in a row." Her tone tells me she doesn't want to elaborate. "And yours?"

"The usual. Somebody got dead." I try to be humorous, but it comes out kind of flat.

She throws the garlic in after the onion and turns to look at me, and I wonder if she looks at new clients that way--trying to figure out what they're hiding. But she doesn't say anything. I wasn't going to either, but this one hit me kind of hard, and the words are out before I can get a grip on them. "He was six."

I'm looking at the counter, but I can hear her sigh. "I'm sorry, Jim." I can hear her walking over, and she lays her hand on mine for a moment. "That must be very hard."

"Yeah, well--" It's a small hand, neat, manicured, but the nails aren't very long. It looks strong. And then she pulls away, and I pick up my glass again. "At least we got the bastard who did it."

I expect her to ask--most people would--but she doesn't. "There's a certain level of satisfaction involved, I assume."

I remember the angry face, the denials, the other two kids who wouldn't be seeing their monster of a parent for quite some time. "Oh yeah."

It's quiet for a little while as she adds other ingredients and the sharp, garlicky smell begins to make my mouth water. At my place we teased each other, trying to deal with the awkward situation, but it's easier this time, more relaxed. I wish I could do something to help, but I don't have that female gift for knowing what needs to be done next and where to find the spoon, or whatever, to mix it with. So I sit, and sip my wine, and watch Heather.

No hardship there.

The table's already set, and Heather lets me carry out the salad and the wine, but handles the heavy baking dish with the possessiveness of a master chef. Judging from the smell, it's justified. She adds a basket of bread and lights the candles, and on impulse I hold out her chair for her. She shoots me one wide-eyed glance--oh, man, those eyes--and then sits gracefully down, and I slide in the chair and take my own place.

"So this is your mom's recipe?" I ask, helping myself to a generous portion of fish.

"Actually, this and the salad both come from my grandmother," Heather says, taking a slice of bread and handing me the basket. It's something dark and crunchy, and while I normally prefer my bread white, the flavor sets off the fish pretty nicely. "So often, Americans lose touch with the cultures from which they came. Recipes are one way to maintain that connection."

"I suppose." I shrug, and try a bite of cucumber. The garlic and paprika sting my eyes just enough; this salad is powerful stuff in the best way. _Good thing I'm not planning on kissing anyone tonight._ And then I cut off that line of thought before it gets any further. "But what do you do if you've got enough different ancestors to stock the United Nations?"

She smiles. "Choose your favorites?" she suggests, and I laugh.

"That'll work. Heather, this fish is something else."

She blushes. She _blushes._ The dominatrix who's seen everything is turning pink because I've given her a half-assed compliment.

Will wonders never cease.

I ask her how it's made, and she tells me, and we argue happily about potatoes versus bread as a side dish and the importance of garlic. I make a pig of myself on the fish without feeling guilty--Heather was telling the truth when she said she cooked big--and we move on to the use of gadgets in the kitchen, with Heather on the side of DIY and me insisting that cooking's more fun with toys. Finally I tell her about the Great Microwave Popcorn Disaster that's become legend at the precinct house, and when she starts laughing I can't help joining in, even though I've told that story so often that it shouldn't be funny any more.

She sits back in her chair, her laugh tailing off into a chuckle, and a phone rings. The sound is so close to my cell that my hand goes automatically to my hip, but Heather's already standing. "Excuse me a moment, please, Jim," she says, and goes back into the kitchen.

I take one last slice of bread and tear it in half, adding butter and resting my elbows on the table in a way that would have pissed off my mother if she'd been there to see it. Eavesdropping is second nature; I'm not really trying to listen in on Heather's conversation, but I'm not really trying not to, either, and to be truthful she doesn't seem to be trying to hide it.

I can't really make out words, but her voice is a little flat, a little guarded. There are a few long pauses while she listens, and then she says something in a warmer tone before hanging up. When she comes back to the table her mouth is tight, and I sit back and give her a questioning look.

"My mother," she says, and she sounds tired. Sitting back down, she picks up her fork, but only to push a last slice of cucumber around her plate. "I'll call her back later."

"Something the matter?" She looks troubled, and I find myself wanting her to relax again.

Heather sets down the fork with a sigh. "Nothing new."

"She doesn't approve of what you do?" I hazard, and when she looks back up her eyes are narrowed, and for a second I think I've gone too far. Then she looks back down at her plate, chuckling a little. It's a rueful sound.

"She thinks it's a waste of my talents. And no, she doesn't approve. But it's putting my daughter through Harvard, so I don't make excuses."

"Harvard--wow." I nod, thinking of the Harvard grad I know. "That's not easy." The sparkle of pride in Heather's face is impossible to miss, and I reach for a change of subject, not willing to talk about offspring right now. "So--what does a dominatrix do for fun?"

I wink so she'll know I'm teasing, and she grins at me. "Fishing for secrets, Mr. Brass?"

"That's my job."

Heather chuckles again. "Well, let's see. I cook, but you know that. I shop. I collect 78 rpm records of the big band greats. I watch movies...and I make use of my hot tub."

The look she gives me is downright wicked. "And you? What does a police detective do in his off hours?"

"When I'm not dominating the big bad city?" She blinks, and I'm delighted all out of proportion at my hit. "I cook...but you know that." We're both grinning now. "I follow the NHL like a maniac. I watch movies...and..." I draw the pause out. "...Can you keep a secret?"

Heather leans forward a little, pursing those lush lips, her eyes merry. "I keep secrets for a living, Captain."

I lean forward too. "I read fantasy novels," I whisper conspiratorially. At her look of mock horror, I nod, pretending shame. "It's true. Mostly the classics--I'm a Tolkien addict--but I can't resist any book that has a dragon on the cover."

"I can see why you keep that a secret," she says. "Really, Jim, and here I thought I was the more outré of the two of us."

"It's always the nice guys you have to watch out for," I point out cheerfully, and she arches a brow.

"You have no idea."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Heather **

Unlike Jim's pathetic excuse for a dishwasher, mine works just fine. He insists on clearing the table so that I can load my machine, claiming that it has been so long that he no longer remembers what should go where. I'm having a good time--I don't want this to end--it's so quiet with Zoe gone. But the sun's well up in the sky, and we both have to work tonight.

I pull his Tupperware container from a cabinet and fill it with some of the leftover fish. "You don't have to do that--" he protests, but I shake my head.

"Turn about is fair play, Jim. Besides, it won't keep long enough for me to eat it all." I conveniently ignore the fact that it freezes quite well.

"All right." He takes the container, and just looks at me for a minute. His eyes are a very dark blue, quite unusual, but I have stared down far too many men to be intimidated.

"You have a crumb here." I tap the corner of my own mouth. The cookies he brought were delicately crumbly, and utterly delicious, and I had a struggle restricting myself to just one.

Jim snorts, and rubs one wide palm over his jaw. "Okay now?" I nod, and he glances down at the container.

"With this in the microwave I'll be the envy of the night shift tonight."

I smile. "Give my greetings to Ms. Willows." We walk towards the front door.

"I'll do that." He pauses with one hand on the knob. "Heather--"

My stomach flutters a little, but I just wait for him to continue.

"I have this really extensive movie collection," he says, and there is a challenge in his voice. "Want to unwind with me next week?"

I regard him for a moment. This man is an experienced investigator and interrogator; his expression is carefully casual. But I am also good at what I do, and I can see something else there. Something that I'm feeling too. And I answer it.

"It sounds delightful."

He nods, the lines of tension around his eyes easing a little. "Next Friday then. Can you do beer?"

I can't help smiling again. "In moderation."

"Terrific. There's a great little pizza place around the corner from me. I'll see you then?"

"Absolutely."

For a moment longer we stare at each other, and then he opens the door and steps outside. We trade farewells and I shut it behind him, then just stand there for a moment, replaying the morning in my head.

I haven't had such a good time in ages--even last week's dinner takes second place. And the prospect of another gives the coming week a brighter aspect than it had just yesterday. I remember his words from dinner at his place, and laugh a little. "If anyone had told me that I would have a homicide detective over for dinner--" I mutter to myself. "And that I'd enjoy it--"

Smiling, I take myself to bed, thinking about desserts. Jim's cookies will be hard to top.

**See Chapter 3**

Feedback? Oh certainly!


	3. 3

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

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**Chapter 3  
**

**BRASS**

I left her a note on the front door so she'd know where I was and not be left standing on the front porch ringing the bell. Fortunately years of department memos have pared my written communication skills down to the basic information, to wit:

_Gone to get pizza, back soon. Come in, but watch out for alarms, Neighborhood Watch and vicious Rotweiller_-JB

I know Heather's smart enough to clue in this means the door's unlocked and she can make herself comfortable while a few blocks away I lean on the counter of Tuscany Pizza and plead with Vinnie to hurry up with the pies already. I have no real fear of being burglarized; not with myself, a sheriff's deputy and a former prosecutor living on my street. It's one of the few decent perks of wearing a badge, believe me.

Vinnie, a short squat suspicious man whose general appearance promotes the missing link theory of evolution, stares at me under his one thick eyebrow.

"You changed your regular order-" he accuses, as if this is a crime of high treason. I nod, shrug; it's safer not to disagree with a man who looks as if he bench presses with Honda Accords.

"Every other Friday you get a medium Tuscany special with artichokes and black olives. Like clockwork. So what's this screwy deal this morning with four small pizzas: one special, one vegetarian, one Sicilian sausage, one Quattro Formagii? You feeding a bunch of choosy midgets?" he grunts in gravelly hurt tones.

"Vinnie-" I hold my hand up in a placating manner, "I've got company I want to impress. I'll be back to the regular order next time."

He stares at me for a moment, and then his gaze softens.

"Lady company?"

I give a little embarrassed shrug; let him make of that what he will. Vinnie gives an approving nod and barks something back in the kitchen where terrified underlings scurry about.

"Zig, add a side order of breadsticks with the four pies. Fresh ones!" To me he grins and I count three gold teeth in that smile.

"On the house-We good looking bachelors gotta stick together."

Man does it take every ounce of presence I've got to nod politely; if Vinnie and I are even in the same gene pool I'd be frightened.

I manage to get the four boxes stacked neatly and into the car, along with the breadsticks, which smell toasty sweet. A few minutes later, and I'm pulling into my own driveway, noting the Miata sitting at the curb, looking pretty good for a vehicle that has been to all intents and purposes submerged two weeks ago. The note is gone from the front door, so I turn the knob while trying to balance the stack of boxes and manage to get in without dropping any of them. They aren't big, but they are awkward.

What a vision greets my eyes, oh baby! It's a nicely rounded fanny, heart-shaped, sweetly pert through a long denim skirt as I catch sight of Heather Marazek on her hands and knees on my carpet. Allowing myself a scant two seconds to goggle, I cough, loudly. Heather looks over her shoulder at me and demurely rises to her knees, looking only slightly annoyed.

"I'm looking for the backing to one of my earrings."

"Ah. Well give me a second to set these down and I'll help you-"

I shift the pies to the dining room table and come back around to where my guest is on her knees and palms again, sweeping long fingers over my Berber with a touch I'm better off not obsessing about. It's never good to be jealous of a carpet. I get down and join her; glad the creaks in my knees aren't audible. She flashes a smile at me then, a good one that reaches her eyes and sighs a little as we reconnect for the moment.

"I'm sorry to snap at you. It's just that Zoe gave me this pair and they're my favorites," she explains in a more subdued tone. I nod and make a slow stroke across the nubble, hitting pay dirt about ten inches in front of me; carefully I pull up the little silver backing and hand it to her.

"Thank you."

"I got lucky."

She takes it and we both get up; Heather heads for the kitchen sink to rinse it while I follow her and wash off my hands on general principals and good manners.

"Zoe's the one in Harvard?" I prompt, gently, working soap through my fingers. Heather looks up shyly and nods as she carefully threads her earring back in her right lobe. It's a small pearl, classy and undoubtedly expensive.

"My one and only. She works part time at a jewelers, so she's developing an eye for gems."

I smile but before even I think about what I'm saying the questions come out, force of long habit: "They have a good security system there? Cameras, silent alarms?"

The smile I get in return is so strong I practically need Ray Bans, and through it comes a surge of warmth of the sort I haven't received from a woman in a long time. I'm confused. Is she pleased I asked, or pleased she can tell me that they DO have decent measures in place?

"Jim Brass, you never fail to astonish me," she softly intones, and blinks a little. Catching her breath she adds, "They've got good security. They're in the middle of a big mall just across from a police kiosk, actually."

I nod approvingly and dry my hands on the towel hanging from the handle of the fridge, pleased that she understands what I meant as well as what I said. Not everyone would.

In any event, she's looking at the four pizza boxes with an expression of bewilderment, and I a take a moment to enjoy the sight of her trying to figure it out. She looks great; I can certainly attest to the back view. If I had to play eyewitness I'd say she was wearing a white peasant blouse off the shoulders, but long sleeved with lots of bangle bracelets, a wide belt, long denim skirt and flat comfortable leather sandals. What I wouldn't add in that report would be how graceful her bare shoulders are, or how she's wearing a hint of something lavender scented. She turns a serious gaze at me and I have to explain the boxes.

I clear my throat.

"It sort of dawned on me that I have no idea what you like on your pizza. Rather than order one large that may or may not have toppings you prefer, I figured I'd get four small and we could mix and match. Tuscany's is the pride of this side of town so I know they're all good. And I've got Pumpkin Ale or Miller Lite to wash it down."

She's slowly opening the boxes, peeking in and breathing deeply, smiling while I fish out a few plates and napkins, suddenly glad of the company. It was a long shift, full of the weary, piddling paperwork wrap-ups to the week's cases, and a lot of them were depressing. I got through it all a little easier just knowing I'd have this to look forward to.

"So, dinner looks marvelous-what's on the line up, movie-wise?" Heather asks softly, choosing Ale and twisting the cap off in a way that warms my heart. I point with my chin to the oak cabinet in the living room.

"Your choice, since you're the guest."

She saunters over, opens the cabinet and peers in at the neatly ordered movies. I wait for the comment that usually comes from anyone looking in on it-yes I alphabetize them. Not because I'm anal-retentive, but because normally when I come home and want to watch a movie I want it RIGHT THEN, and having some way of finding it helps.

The order part of law and order I guess.

I hear little murmurs of interest as she moves down the shelves, and make it a point not to go over and help-I want this to be her selection fair and square, although a part of me hopes she doesn't choose anything with an extended love scene in it. I'm not quite ready to deal with certain aspects of life that I haven't had the pleasure of in a while. It's hard to explain, because I wouldn't be embarrassed, just-wistful, I guess.

True confession: I'm not big on the dating circuit. The last woman I asked to a movie turned me down with that nice little smile and a pat on my hand that announced as clearly as a billboard NOT INTERESTED. Ah well, never let it be said I can't take a hint. And Heather and I are not dating, so it's not really the same.

We just do dinner.

Weekly.

She saves me from further confusion by pulling out a box and holding it with a little triumphant sound from deep in her throat.

"I haven't seen this in ages! It was one of the first films I took my daughter to see that wasn't a matinee," she murmurs softly. I recognize the case and smile.

"Great choice."

Oh yeah. Indiana Jones I can handle, not a problem. You have your basic evil Nazis, plucky girl/love interest, and special effects that still hold up pretty well despite the years. Classics are a safe bet. I come out to the living room and set the plates down, then take the box from her, lightly brushing her fingers as I do.

"Tell me the name of the evil archeologist and you won't have to help with the dishes," I challenge her. She thinks furiously for a long moment, concentrating in a way I find . . . cute. She looks up triumphantly.

"Duval!"

"Sorry, no cigar," I tell her gently, moving to the VCR and popping the film in. I know eventually I'm gonna have to make the big switch to DVDs like the rest of the world, but I've got too much invested in tapes right now. I went through this rigmarole with vinyl records then cassettes and now CDs in music, so I'm a little weary of keeping up with technology.

Heather is sitting primly on the sofa, a plate balanced on her knees I shoot a look at her, my eyebrows going up.

"I'm sure it's Duval," she insists in a quiet, serious voice. I shake my head and hit the start button, then come back to get a plate of my own.

"We have the special, the vegetarian, the sausage and the Quattro Formagii here, all of them outstanding but if you're prone to heartburn, I suggest going light on the sausage."

She chooses the Formagii and the vegetarian while I load up on the special and settle in on the sofa beside her. She shifts and just like that, her personal space and mine are crossing over as she leans back and carefully lifts a slice for a bite.

"So if it's not Duval, is it Dumont?"

"Nope. One more chance-" I tell her cheerfully, taking a bigger bite of my pizza than I probably should--sue me, I'm hungry. On the screen in front of us, the credits are starting to roll and I seemingly turn my attention to the screen but I'm all too aware of the woman beside me nibbling away on her pizza.

"Valmont?"

"You're thinking of Dangerous Liaisons, Heather, not Indiana Jones. Three strikes, you're out in the kitchen while I triumph in this round of trivia. His name's Belloq."

She rolls her eyes in good-natured self-reproach and we're off and running, watching a very young Alfred Molina guide an equally young Harrison Ford through various South American deathtraps while I open my beer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I'm watching the movie. I'm also watching Heather with my peripheral vision, working hard at not getting caught at it. God she's striking in her natural colors; a hell of a lot more so than in her Goth gear. She's got a profile that would do Hungarian royalty proud, and I can see the lean muscles of her bare shoulders flexing as she shifts her plate around. One of the pizza boxes is empty, and I'm eyeing the last slice of special as on the screen, Harrison and the monkey are bemoaning the loss of Karen Allen. I reach for the slice just as Heather does too.

"Mine," she mock growls. I sneer back.

"Yours if you can tell me two other movies Karen Allen starred in," I offer. Heather turns to face me, and it dawns on me then how close she really is when I can see how wide and dark her pupils are.

"Starman, and---" she majestically reaches for the pizza, "--Animal House."

"We have a winner," I concede gracefully, but Heather is breaking the slice in two, and handing me part of it graciously. Cheese strings out in long gloppy strands between the sections; she coils the melted stuff around her index finger and presses it to my lips in a sweet little move of utter temptation. Man, I give in without a moment's hesitation, letting that finger slide into my mouth to deliver the mozzarella in a way that should probably be illegal.

Her finger's cool, and for a moment all my senses are spiking at the image we must make. Then she slowly withdraws her hand, the bangles on her wrist rattling as she laughs.

"I suppose we could call that gesture somewhat cheesy."

"I thought it was in great taste," I manage back without choking too much. Sensory overload here while I take a minute to remind my hormones that now is NOT the time to embarrass me. Fortunately Heather's turned back to the movie so I can catch my breath and try to relax.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**HEATHER**

I don't know precisely what made me do it-probably a tiny hint of pique over missing the movie question I suppose. Jim's going to learn soon enough that I'm terribly competitive by nature, and given half a chance I'll fight for every point, chip, token or card in any game. Cutthroat monopoly was always my favorite, and a good training ground for my current career.

But to tease him this way is unfair. I won't use flirtation as an excuse for one upmanship with him because I like what we have right now, this easy camaraderie. Certainly he's attractive in a tempting cuddly way, and God knows I wouldn't mind his arm around me, but things are still too new between us to even think about that. Jim is my friend and right now I need a friend much more than I do a conquest of any sort.

It's ironic, really. I'm considered the queen of sin, the empress of erotica, and in truth, I haven't been kissed above my knees in almost six years. My sycophants and clients might lick my toes and worship at my feet, but that's all. The closest I've come to taking a lover was two years ago when Gil Grissom momentarily succumbed to his own dominant nature and cupped my face. Even then, he pulled back.

In a great many ways.

Nevertheless, I simply can't afford to let attraction overrule connection. That happened with Glenn, and I've learned my lesson well on that account. I sigh.

"Oh come on, it's going to be all right, you know it is-" Jim reassures me, and with a start I realize he's worried I'm upset over the opening of the Ark. I manage a crooked smile because his words are reassuring on a level he doesn't even realize.

"Only if I keep my eyes closed."

"Nah, you're the sort to keep things in your line of sight. Straightforward."

"Only because I went through my marriage with them half-closed for so long," I murmur softly. Jim shoots me a surprised look, and it dawns on me he knows nothing about Glenn. I give a gentle smirk.

"In a nutshell, I married out of college to a man I was sure I'd grow to love, and didn't. By the time we had Zoe, Glenn and I had less in common than Democrats and Republicans. That was when I realized something immensely painful."

"You were smarter than he was," Jim deduces in an amazing flash of insight. I simply stare at him and he chuckles softly. On the screen, Marian and Indiana are coming down the steps, about to link arms. I would kill for her outfit in this scene, I truly would.

"Yessssss . . . " I drag out, wanting to explain, and not sure how to do it. "Glenn wasn't bad or evil. We didn't hate each other, but we did finally reach an understanding about how different we truly were. He sold Real Estate and was all about quote, the deal, unquote. I had my sights set in other directions."

Now Jim's face truly is a study in comedy as I read it and laugh. He's dying to know how I got into my line of work, and if Glenn was any part of that, but he's afraid to ask.

"And now you're trying to figure out how a good little housewife metamorphed into the whip wielding wonder you see before you," I prompt in soft tone. He manages one of those expressions that asks without a word spoken, a gentle little lift of the corner of his mouth. I rise slowly, stretching, and then start to collect the dishes.

After all, I did lose the bet.

"Ironically, it was all because of a psychology course I took at a community college. We got to the chapter on sexual aberrance, and at that point the professor needed us to do a project. I chose to work as a phone sex operator and analyze the experience as my assignment."

"A phone sex operator . . . and I take it the project was a success?" Oh he's smirking now, as I somehow knew he would, but it's a gentle smile that tells me he's seen a boiler room before.

Sometimes I forget that there ARE people who know the unpleasant truth about businesses like that: the small cramped rooms, the annoying headsets, the endless spew of needs and profanity and fantasy all blending into one. The look in his eyes is gentle, encouraging.

"I earned an A, and I was offered a permanent job at Whispered Fantasies, which paid much better than Avon or Tupperware. After a few months I was asked if I would mind working at a private party, and the rest is . . . history."

"Good business sense, a degree in Anthropology and a relatively untapped market. All of them, you'll pardon the expression, coming together at the right time to create Lady Heather's Dominion," he finishes brightly, pleased to have pieced it together. He's a good detective; skillful in making connections and intuitive leaps that others might miss.

I give a little dramatic sigh.

"I'm losing my mystique now, just another divorcee turned businesswoman in your eyes."

His glance is warm, and dare I say it? Almost affectionate. Strange how that makes my stomach tighten.

"Heather, your charisma is ageless-trust me."

I turn away, smiling, not willing to let him see that such a patently corny line still works. Coming from anyone else it would make me laugh out loud, but Jim's tone has an undercurrent of sincerity that leaves me a little worried about my susceptibility to his brand of charm. I run the water and squeeze a quick squirt of soap into the running faucet to keep from letting him see my expression. He gets up from the sofa, goes to the VCR, pops the tape out and boxes it slowly.

When I look up, Jim's in the kitchen doorway, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a good strong pair of forearms. I stare at them a moment, admiring the masculine lines of them.

"Drying duty, because you got the Karen Allen question right," he offers and snags the dishtowel from his refrigerator handle. I nod. We quietly do the dishes, working in tandem, comfortable in this chore now, and I'm almost reluctant to let the water drain out when we're done. Jim neatly hangs the towel on the edge of the drain board and sighs.

"Last trivia question of the meal, Heather-what do we have for dessert? Our choices consist of the following selections, so listen closely. A, green Jell-O, B, green Jell-O, or C, green Jell-O. Take your time and choose wisely."

I cock my head, playing along, looking concerned and as scholarly as I can. He moves to the fridge and grips the handle.

"A tough choice," I muse, crossing my arms. "Made all the more difficult by the mind-boggling variety. May I use a lifeline?"

"Not at six-thirty on a Saturday morning, no. There isn't a friend or loved one on earth who would appreciate a call about Jell-O at this hour on a day off," he gravely assures me. I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut.

"The pressure's terrible, but I have to go with C, Green Jell-O."

He yanks open the icebox and fishes out a dessert cup, handing it to me as if it's the Holy Grail itself.

"Stunning AND smart. No wonder you knock'em dead every time. Eat up-you've earned this fabulous prize."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He walks me to my car just as the day is showing signs of the scorcher it's going to be. A few sprinkler systems up and down the street are already on, and I reach for my sunglasses on the passenger seat, slipping them on as I buckled up. Jim leans on the window frame, smiling. His sleeves are still rolled up, and I'm noticing that his ring finger is as tanned as all the others. No white lines.

"You look very Jackie O," he tells me. I smile back.

"We do what we can. And on that note, one of the things I can do is. . . grill."

He looks intrigued, in that sly Jim Brass way I've come to recognize.

"Grill, grill---as in interrogate? Or barbeque?"

"The latter for the moment. Is Friday acceptable?"

He nods. I nod back, and quickly lay my hand over his on the window frame, feeling the lovely warmth along his fingers. I squeeze them, not willing to let go for a moment, finding a comfort in molding my touch over his this way.

Then the moment passes and I start the engine, heading out into the weekend, feeling sadness and content mingling through my stomach as I drive away, leaving him at the curb, watching me go.

**See Chapter 4**


	4. 4

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  


**Chapter 4  
**

**BRASS**

The first thing I notice when I get out of the car is a familiar smell, one that makes me think of summertime and hamburgers. Smoke and chemicals. I wonder what the neighbors think, somebody grilling at dawn, but then I remember--it's Vegas. They probably don't even blink.

And then I have to wonder if they know what Heather does for a living. It's a weird thought, and not completely comfortable. Do they think she's just another night-shift pit boss? Or do they keep their kids away from her yard?

She doesn't come the first time I press the doorbell, and a touch of uneasiness tickles my spine. I know, I know, sometimes you don't hear it the first time, or you're in the can or on the other side of the house or whatever--I've heard 'em all a million times just serving warrants. But hey, I'm a cop. I can't help thinking of the times when nobody comes to the door because there's nobody there who can.

But I thumb the bell a second time, and a few seconds later the door opens, and there she is, smiling up at me. Her cheeks are a little pink and she's got her hair in a ponytail, and I can't help smiling back. "I'm sorry," she says, a little breathlessly. "I was out in back. Come in."

Unlike last time, she turns and walks towards the kitchen, leaving me to shut the door behind myself. Which tells me she trusts me.

I follow her into the kitchen, taking another quick look around her place. The living room's about as normal as you can get, with photos and a big-screen TV that would give Nick gadget envy; the kitchen's brighter, set up for actual cooking, not for show. As we hit the kitchen I dig in my jacket pocket. "Here."

She turns, and her eyebrow goes up, but she takes the little box anyway. "Jim, you did it _again?_"

"Can't fight my early training."

Heather makes a little snorting noise, but her lips purse when she opens it and sees the almonds inside, and I know she's pleased. She'd mentioned before how much she enjoys good-quality smoked almonds, and for some reason they're not easy to find, even in a place like Vegas.

"You're a dear." She lays a hand on my arm, and before I know it she's leaned up and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. Before I can so much as blink, though, she steps away and puts the almonds down.

A glass pitcher of iced tea is sitting on the counter, next to a big platter covered with skewers of chicken and vegetables--tomatoes, onions, zucchini, and something I have to squint at before I recognize as artichoke hearts. She gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it. "Dinner should be another half-hour or so."

Heather hands me the glass and I take a gulp, and it's just right--cold and fragrant and the slightest bit bitter, the way iced tea should be. "Would you like sugar?" she asks, and I shake my head.

"This is fine."

She smiles again and picks up the platter. "Come out and talk to me," she invites, and I grab the pitcher of tea and follow her again, back through the living room and out the sliding glass door.

The patio isn't very large; half of it is taken up with the hot tub, nothing but a low-walled circle under a cover. The grill is open and smoking, and Heather puts the platter on the round picnic table next to it and starts laying the skewers out.

A few bugs are circling the light, but the sun's starting to come up, and it feels comfortable, almost like I can pretend the sun's sinking instead and that we live actual day lives like normal people. I have a seat on one of the curved picnic benches and set down the pitcher, taking a moment to study Heather as she adjusts the skewers like their placement means the fate of the free world.

I'm almost sorry her hair isn't down again, but I guess if you're working with open flame it makes sense to keep it back. She's wearing a T-shirt and shorts this time, with a sweater, and I let my eyes linger on the curve of her ass and follow her legs down. I've seen 'em before, flashing in and out of one of those floaty skirts she wears to work, but this is different. Now they're bare, and...she's not using them, not for display.

It makes a difference.

Her feet are bare again too; her toes are painted a different color this week, some kind of dark red, and she has a shiny little chain around one ankle. What do they call those things these days? Ankle bracelets? Shouldn't they be anklets?

Heather puts the lid on the grill and I look up again, not wanting to be caught staring this time either. She swings one of those long legs over the other bench and sits down across from me, picking up the half-empty glass that's already on the table and draining it. By the time she puts it down I've already got the pitcher, and I fill her glass again with a rattle of ice cubes while she smiles at me. "Thank you, Jim."

She's smiling a lot tonight. And I have to admit I like it. "Have a good night?" I ask.

"Very." She looks satisfied, and clinks her glass against mine. "I need more bandwidth for the site, which is a good thing. You?"

I shrug. "Kind of quiet, actually. Chased down a few leads, talked to a few witnesses, interrogated a suspect or two. Nothing major." A lot of police work is dead boring, even to the police, and confidentiality issues keep me from going into detail on some of the more exciting stuff. "One thing about being on the night shift--you tend to get more weirdos as colleagues. Makes life more interesting."

"Yourself excepted, of course," Heather says, pursing her lips again and laughing at me without a sound.

"Hell no," I retort, and we both laugh out loud. "'Normal' and I are barely nodding acquaintances by now."

She runs a finger down her glass, wiping away some of the condensation. "In my experience, there's no such thing as normal."

The sun's edge is just clearing the horizon, and the light's making her hair look redder than usual. The chicken's starting to smell delicious; I read garlic, soy sauce, a few other things I can't identify. For an instant the smell takes me someplace else, and it's sunset instead, and the air's humid; it's trees instead of flowerboxes and there's a little girl who looks like a princess swinging on the swingset, yelling to ask me when her hot dog is going to be ready. Then I blink, and normal is gone. If it ever really existed.

"Just varying levels of freak, huh?" I ask, and Heather frowns, her eyes going cold.

I groan, and rub my eyes with my hands. "Sorry," I apologize. "Bad memory."

"It's all right," she says, and while her voice is cool, I can see the flash of anger fading. "You look tired, Jim."

"Long week." I shrug. "Some days I just don't sleep well."

"Do you want to take a rain check?" she asks softly, which surprises the heck out of me. "We can, you know."

Her face is all sympathetic, and that makes me feel good in an embarrassed sort of way, but underneath that is a hint of that wistfulness, and I would have to be a whole lot tireder to give up and leave now.

"No way," I tell her, and watch her shoulders relax a little. "I've been looking forward to this all week."

That turns her cheeks pink again, and she shakes her head, which makes a few bits of hair come loose and float around her ears--very cute.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**HEATHER **

He does look tired.

Jim's not a classically handsome man; his face shows the effects of decades in a hard job, of dealing with--hackneyed phrase, but appropriate--the underbelly of society. Lines radiate out from his eyes, and his close-clipped hair is growing thin. But if there's one thing I've learned over time, it's that a pretty face means very little. What makes the difference is the kindness in his eyes, the humor around his mouth. This morning that humor is half-lost under exhaustion. Something's troubling him.

I debate with myself over drawing him out. It's one thing to read a client, but it's another to read a friend. It's very easy to go too far, to reveal too much, and I don't want to see him pulling back and shutting down. I really don't want that.

So we make small talk for a while, and I watch him relax, though his gaze still travels over my yard from time to time as though something about it bothers him. When the chicken's done I go back in the house for the rice and fruit salad, ordering him to stay put, and he obeys me with the eye-roll that says "look how henpecked I am" and the tiny grin that tells me he enjoys it.

I think I surpassed myself on the marinade this time. Jim slides the food off his skewer, tumbling it about in the rice, and with the first bite he makes that faint grunting noise that I've come to realize signals deep appreciation. "Okay, what's in it?" he asks as soon as he swallows, and I have to grin.

"Garlic, ginger, sugar, soy sauce--the good kind. I get it at the Far Eastern market over on Baker Street." I take a mouthful of zucchini and it's just right, not too soft and shot through with flavor.

He raises his brows. "That's it?"

I wipe my mouth with my napkin. "It's the proportions that matter. And the time to marinate."

"Well, it's terrific." He slices into a tomato, and I scoop up some rice, satisfied. Cooking for one is boring. Cooking for two is stimulating--particularly if the other person truly appreciates a well-constructed meal.

Some of the strain eases as we eat, and I know the food's doing him good--I expect his blood sugar was pretty low. But in between bites his mouth is still drawn down. When he takes a second skewer but just stares at the food on his plate, I reach over and brush my fingers over his arm. "What's the matter?"

He blinks, and picks up his fork again. "That obvious, huh?"

I simply look at him, and after a moment he shrugs. "My ex called today," he says, and the weariness in his tone makes my throat tighten a little. "She does that from time to time. Usually when she's had a fight with whoever she's hanging with."

He stuffs a bite of banana in his mouth, as though to stop his words.

"How long have you been divorced?" I ask. An expected question; a neutral one.

He swallows, and looks up and back, into memory. "About fourteen years, I guess." He laughs a little, but the sound carries no humor. "Longer than I was married, that's for sure."

His eyes narrow, as though closing something out, and I get up to shut off the patio light. The sun's well up now, and the air's warming quickly; Jim strips off his jacket and drapes it over the bench he's sitting on. This time I pour him more tea.

"Guess you see a lot of that?" I blink and sit back down, a little puzzled by his question.

"See a lot of what?"

He waves his fork, but his eyes don't meet mine, and I can tell he's a little embarrassed. "Marriage problems."

I hesitate. Partly because of the confidentiality that my business demands, but partly because the question seems so out of place for him. "From time to time, yes," I answer finally. "Couples do come to the Dominion for help. But marriage counseling isn't our focus."

Jim opens his mouth and then shuts it again, and I can guess what he's choosing not to say, and I appreciate his restraint. "What we do is help people understand themselves and their needs," I say gently. "Quite often this can help them in their relationships, but we tend to concentrate on the individual, rather than a couple."

"Mmm." He nods. "Like you were willing to help me with my inadequacy?" He takes a drink of tea, shooting me a naughty look over the rim of his glass, and my mouth drops open.

Only for a moment, though--it takes a lot to surprise me, even when I have my guard down. I give him my best haughty look back, but make sure the humor shows through. "Detective Brass, if you can't recognize a distraction technique when you see one--"

He chuckles. "You were plenty distracting just on your own," he says, and the faintest hint of color dusts his cheeks, but I put it down to the memory of being alone in an interrogation room with a dominatrix in full work dress. Not that I wasn't fully aware of who was watching from the other side of the mirror.

"You know, I didn't really think you were guilty," he says abruptly. I let one brow arch, and lean my elbow on the table and my head on my hand.

"No?"

Jim sets down the glass, rolling it idly between those short strong fingers. "Nah. You're smarter than that. The murders were clever, but they kept pointing back to your place. If you killed someone, there's no way we'd be able to connect it to your business."

He really does astonish me. "Jim?"

"Hm?"

"I think that's one of the nicest compliments I've been given." Backhanded and absurd as it is.

This time his face is definitely pink. It's...charming.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**BRASS **

Y'know, this is downright bizarre. I'm sitting in a perfectly ordinary backyard on a Vegas morning, having finished a truly excellent meal, and I'm talking to someone who is one of the most sympathetic listeners I've run into in years--and she runs a sex club. Okay, okay, fetish club. But just because they don't actually do sex there doesn't mean it isn't what the place is about.

I guess what's bizarre is that it really doesn't matter any more. She's just Heather.

"You telling me I'm not really inadequate?" I tease, and Heather gives me another moue.

"I'm sure you didn't get to be Captain by being anything less than the best," she says, and the humor drains out of me.

"You're wrong about that." I pick up the glass and take another gulp of tea. The sunlight has that peculiar clearness that comes with dawn, and I can see her eyes widening a little even though I'm not really looking at her face. "But that's a long story." I stare down at the melting ice. "Karen would agree with you. About the inadequacy, I mean." It was incompetence, actually, that got me where I am today, but I'm sure as hell not going to discuss Holly Gribbs' death today. Some ghosts just linger.

"Karen is your ex-wife?" Heather asks softly, and I know it's a prompt. She's just as good as interrogation as a cop, in her own way.

"Yep." Her voice plays in my memory again, last night's phone call, hoarse with cigarette smoke and alcohol, and whiny. I hate to say that about her, but it's true. I've heard that tone too many times to count, from half-assed petty criminals who think the world owes them a living, or victims who couldn't be bothered to look out for themselves. "I haven't actually seen her since the last time I went back to New Jersey, when my mom died. Five years maybe."

"Your daughter," she says, with that insight that's downright eerie. "That's why you keep the connection?"

"Fat lot of good it does," I mutter. I don't want to talk about Ellie any more than I want to talk about Holly.

The expected question doesn't come. Finally I look up, and she's just regarding me, those blue eyes clear and calm.

"Sorry," I manage. "Didn't mean to get all maudlin on you."

"What else are friends for?" she asks lightly, and stands up again. "I'll be right back."

She vanishes into the house, and I sit for a minute, wondering why in hell I'm talking about something I've kept under my hat since I came to Vegas. Then I sigh and get up myself. All that iced tea is hitting bottom.

The living room is still dark with the curtains drawn, but the kitchen is all lit up, and for a second I pause in the shadow and watch Heather moving around. There's the faintest smack as her bare feet hit the floor, and the graceful swing of her hips as she rounds the island; she stretches up to get something from a cupboard, and I shift a little as her shirt rides up and a stretch of pale skin appears over the edge of her shorts. But much as the picture makes my mouth water, and my hands wonder just how soft that skin is, it's a bit too much like voyeurism to stand here and watch her when she doesn't know I'm looking. So I slide the back door shut with a clack and stride forward into the pool of light spilling from the kitchen. Heather's looking inquiring, and I lift my hands. "Bathroom?"

She tilts her head towards the hallway. "Second door on the left."

"Thanks."

The hallway's dark too, and I fumble for a second before finding a light switch on the wall. The light comes on, but immediately goes out again with a pop as the bulb shorts out. I mutter a cuss word and head down the hall towards the second door. There's a couple of shapes on the wall between picture frames, and it takes a second of squinting for me to make them out as masks; it's hard to tell in the dark, but they look Asian.

The bathroom's not as fussy as it could have been in a women-only household, but it's still cluttered with bottles and jars and brushes and _things_ I don't know the use of--and don't want to know. Female beauty rituals are something a man leaves to mystery if he can. It smells nice, though, sort of sweet and flowery, like the way my mother's bedroom used to smell when I was a kid. The towels are red, the tiles are white and deep blue, and the shower is twice the size of a standard one. I finish my business and scrub up, but I can't resist a peek inside that big blue box.

My eyes go wide. More bottles, sure, but what gets me is the two separate shower heads on either end, and one of those detachable hoses, and a few more faucets than just "hot" and "cold." I shake my head a little and close the door gently.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**HEATHER **

The hallway light's burned out _again_. Making a mental note to call the electrician--it's the third time in as many months--I fumble in the linen closet for a fresh bulb and open Zoe's door, flicking on the light to shed some into the hallway. Normally I'd just leave the hall light until I can get it looked at, but not with a guest in the house.

Unfortunately, he's done in the bathroom before I even have the old bulb out of its socket, so he emerges to find me in a rather undignified perch on a chair, trying to loosen the bulb with one hand and balance the light cover in the other.

Jim stops short and looks up, and I look back down, blowing out my breath to push away a wisp of hair that's tickling my nose. He puts his hands on his hips, and even in the half-light I can see the amusement suffusing his face.

"It's not funny," I scold, even though I can't keep my lips from curling up.

"It sure isn't," he says, obviously trying to sound stern. "Don't you have a stepladder someplace?"

"Of course," I shoot back in my best haughty tone. "But that takes too long."

Inevitably, the chair chooses that moment to wobble on the carpet. I jerk in reflex, my free hand reaching out for balance, but strong hands close over my waist. "I've got you," Jim says, and the next instant my feet are on the floor and I'm blinking with the surprise of it.

The moment goes from movement to stillness, but the adrenaline is still there. Jim's hands are still on my waist, hot against my skin, and he's standing right behind me--not pressing, but right there. I can feel the rush of his breath past my ear, and the goosebumps it raises in its wake. For this one moment, we are totally aware of each other, and a large part of me wants to lean back against him, or better yet turn around. Turn around and...he smells so good...

No. We're friends. I remind myself of all the reasons why I should just step away, and suit actions to thoughts at the same moment he lets me go. I do turn, but not until there's a safe space between us. The cover is still clutched in my hands.

"You've rescued me again, Captain," I say, making my voice light. "Thank you."

"That's my job," he says, equally lightly. "Now, about that stepladder?"

So I end up handing him the fresh bulb from my pocket and then the cover as he perches on the ladder. "You should have been an electrician," I tease as he comes down and folds the ladder shut, and he grunts.

"Yeah--they make more money." He carts the ladder back through to the garage, and I go to throw out the old bulb.

The coffee I started before he came inside has finished brewing, and Jim asks where the mugs are and fetches down two as I get the ice cream from the freezer. It's a little solid, but that comes with the method.

I meant to go back out to the patio, but somehow we end up standing on either side of the kitchen island, sipping coffee. I spoon out the ice cream, mentioning that there's chocolate sauce in the refrigerator if Jim wants it.

"On chocolate chip?" he asks, sliding a bowl towards himself.

"It's mint chip," I correct. "Zoe's favorite."

He blinks down at the bowl, looking endearingly baffled. "It's not green."

I have to laugh. "It's homemade. I leave out the food coloring."

"Oh." For a few minutes, there are no sounds other than our spoons against the bowls, and Jim looks so blissful that I decide not to mention that outside the chocolate chips, the ice cream is sugar-free. Why ruin things?

For a while we just stand there, leaning our elbows on the counter, finishing the coffee and simply relaxing. Finally Jim sighs, rubbing his face. "We'd better get that stuff inside before the squirrels come and carry it off."

I shake my head. "I'll deal with it, Jim. Go home. You're tired."

He opens his mouth to protest, but I give him another stern look, and he closes it again. If he weren't so tired, I know he would argue with me; but if he weren't so tired, I wouldn't have told him to go home in the first place.

I walk him to my front door. "Next Friday?" I ask, and he nods and opesn the door. "Thank you again for changing the light," I add, knowing that he will understand that this includes catching me as well.

He turns in the doorway, bracing one arm against the frame, and looks down at me. He doesn't have to look far, but I am suddenly conscious of the height difference again, of the breadth of his shoulders. "Heather--" he starts, and I tilt my head, encouraging.

With a speed I don't really expect, he leans down and kisses me briefly on the cheek. "Thanks for listening," he says quietly, and then he is down the walk and heading towards his car.

I watch him go, feeling the tingle where the shadow of his beard brushed my skin, and then go out back to collect the dishes. Jim's jacket is still draped over the bench, and I almost go and call him. But he would probably turn around and come back for it, and he needs to rest. Time enough to call him later.

I need time to think, anyway.

**See Chapter 5**


	5. 5

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Chapter 5  
**

**HEATHER**

It's been a rough night.

The glamour and mystery of being Lady Heather waxes and wanes in the course of each month. I have nights where I find a great deal of satisfaction in knowing my customers are pleased with our services and atmosphere; nights where I've had to turn thrill seekers away because we were full. I've had nights when I walk the halls with pride, knowing my club is legitimate, fulfilling, and profitable.

And then I have nights like tonight. A customer neglected to tell us of his allergy to latex and we had to call an ambulance to take his swollen hive-covered person to the hospital. A pipe broke in the Whipping Parlor, damaging the flooring in two rooms and flooding part of a hallway. One of my best bondage girls was caught stealing a customer's credit card from his wallet . . . it seemed to go on and on all night. One or two crises I can deal with, but once the first domino of disaster falls, it tends to start a chain reaction until you either laugh or cry. Normally I laugh.

Not tonight.

I stayed until the day housekeeping crew had ushered in the plumbers, then climbed into my car in the dark, locked the doors and gave myself over to a few quick tears. One or two for frustration. One or two more for despair. The last ones for today's date, made all the more personally depressing by the simple fact that I miss Jim.

We've skipped two Fridays in a row, and while the reasons were legitimate, the emptiness left in those hours weighed more than they should have, at least for me. When did I become so fond of the company of a quiet, sly, charming Homicide detective? It's ridiculous. I'm strong and proud, and more than capable of dealing with the life I've chosen to lead. Every night men bow before me, beg for the chance to please me, and yet all I truly want is to sit at my kitchen table across from someone who enjoys my beer-basted pot roast.

Someone who doesn't need costumes or practiced taunts or commands from me, just a little food and company.

Someone who could have called, and didn't.

I drive home, carefully, trying not to think about anything. Certainly not the date. I know there will be a message from Zoe, and probably a package from her as well in the next few days. My mother will have sent a card, and she might call as well to scold me in the most loving way possible, as is her prerogative.

Maybe hot water would help. I start thinking about a nice long scrub under the nozzles, mentally adding ten minutes more to my usual shower time, and as I pull up, I have a plan on how to deal with the day. Shower, climb into my oldest pajamas and fall into bed, stopping only long enough to set the alarm for my sugar test and injection. Screw today, that's my motto.

As I climb out of the car, something catches my eye in the front porch light. Warily, I park the car, set the alarm and go through the house to open the door. I'm unprepared for the bamboo basket of pink and yellow roses hanging from the hummingbird feeder hook. Blinking, I stare until a flutter of white snags my attention, and I reach for the tiny florist's card there.

_Happy Birthday! Delayed for an hour, but would like to stop by and see you---JB_

I clutch the card tightly; breathe in the heady rose fragrance in the predawn stillness, wondering if I'm going to be able to catch my breath.

Then panic sets in. Do I have time to shower? I gently unhook the flowers, set the feeder back up, carry the bamboo basket in to the living room and hustle off to the bathroom, mentally rearranging my timeline and wondering if I've got anything I can whip up quickly. By the time I'm pulling on my green sundress I know what would be perfect to make: omelets.

I'm not fond of eggs, but they're quick protein, and after years of learning the ins and outs of my disease I have a good working knowledge of nutrition, so I include eggs when I know I need them. Those, along with the cream, pepper, Tillamook cheddar and fresh chives in my kitchen will make a perfectly respectable dinner. I reach for my pink hibiscus earrings and catch myself humming as I put them on.

I stop. I stare at my reflection in the somewhat steamy mirror, willing the woman on the other side to get a GRIP, for God's sake. While it's a delightful surprise that he figured out my birthday and sent flowers, it's probably a reflex on his part. I'm sure Jim used to send his mother flowers, probably still sends his daughter flowers on her birthday because it's a traditional thing to do, and Jim Brass is definitely a traditionalist.

Then the doorbell rings and I jump a little, biting my lips to keep from grinning like an idiot.

**BRASS**

I'm good with numbers. Early on I should have probably been an accountant I guess, but it didn't work out that way. I solve crimes and apprehend the bad guys, but somehow through it all I still manage to keep a good head for numbers. All kinds—license plates, phone numbers, addresses, statistics, calibers, schedules, and most importantly, dates.

I'm good at remembering those. I remember the date I first slept with Karen, and the date I married her. I remember the date when I made captain. The date I first testified for Internal Affairs, which coincided with the one of Karen's that resulted in Ellie. I remember the date, hour and minute when Ellie was born.

And I remember the date when I first walked up to the Dominion's big mahogany doors.

So every time I looked at the calendar, I knew there was something about the date that nagged at me. I'd seen it before. It was important somehow. It bothered me so much that I ended up running a driver's license check just to ease my mind, and sure enough, today's date was listed on Heather Marazek's license.

Her picture is nice. Most drivers' license photos look like they've been clipped out of a line-up book, but not hers. She had that little hint of smile that makes you wonder what secret she's thinking about. And having seen it in person, I know how enticing it truly is, how lucky a guy feels to have it directed at him.

So I called up Husky Belden over at Desert Blooms and put in an order. Husky is anything but, a tall skinny guy with a great love of Judy Garland movies if you know what I mean. I helped him out during a stabbing that happened outside his florist shop a few years ago and he's been my contact for flowers ever since.

"Sooooooo? What does this friend like, Jim?" he demands to know as I call him up.

"She's a woman," I counter, hoping the shrug will come through over the phone line. In return I get a deep laugh, Husky's trademark enthusiasm.

"Honey, I GOT that. I'm just trying to figure out what I can offer you at a decent price. I have some great Sophia Loren yellow roses in off the truck today, but if we GO with yellow then we're sending the lady a message you know."

"Happy birthday?" I ask hopefully.

"Mmmmm, more like a 'Happy birthday Sweetheart, daddy got you a pony' message."

I wince. "Got anything else?"

"A lovely bunch of Marquessa Pink roses—they have that nice little blush of fuchsia in the center . . . oh Jim I HAVE it! We can blend the bouquet and I'll make sure the arrangement is stunning. Pink and yellow in one of the new split bamboo baskets."

I lean back, amused at Husky's enthusiasm. Hey, the guy knows his blooms, who am I to argue?

"So what would that bunch be saying?"

"Happy birthday, I'm grateful and happy to know you," he responds promptly, "The basket says I think you're exotic and wonderful. Good enough?"

"Sounds good," I offer, and Husky chuckles on the other end of the line.

"Oho! That was lacking zest. Looking to say a little more, Jim?"

"No," I snap back, adding in an undertone, "Not yet."

"Fair enough. Hey, once I get done with this order you may not have to say anything more!" Husky tells me. "So what's the address?"

"I'll deliver it myself. Can you have it done in say, two hours?"

"Will do." He quotes me a price and I don't even flinch, which tells me either I'm distracted, or that Heather is now within the inner ranks of people special to Jim Brass. In a rare show of personal honesty I'm pretty sure I know which it is.

Ever try birthday shopping while on the job? I don't recommend it, especially if you work the night shift. Swinging from the scene of a gory gang shoot out into a pristine Sonoma-Williams culinary shop is like being in a David Lynch movie. Most stores on the fringes of downtown are only open until ten or maybe midnight so I have to hustle, but fortunately I have a pretty good idea of what to get, so by four in the morning I not only have several presents, I've also had a chance to wrap them, sort of.

Thank God for the gift bag—I can't remember how men like me managed holidays before them.

The flowers are in the back of the car, and I drop them off at Heather's before heading back to the office to finish up a few things. Grissom and his gang are scattered through the lab, working on not only the gang shooting but also a suspicious explosion at one of the self-storage places near the highway. I finish the last gang member interrogation with enough time to get over to Heather's just as the faint line of dawn is a pink line on the horizon. I ring the bell, pleased to see the basket is gone and the hummingbird feeder's back up—that tells me she got them all right.

The door opens, I smile, and woooof!

Heather launches herself at me, arms sliding around my ribs; I catch a bit of sweet warm breath as her face tilts up and she kisses me.

I was NOT expecting this, but living in the moment has never tasted so damn good and I go with the flow completely here, feeling the amazing softness of those full lips on mine. Quick hard tingles shoot through my spine, adrenaline spiked with arousal. Her mouth is soft and hot--just as I move to pull her to me and give this kiss some gas she draws away and laughs up into my face.

"I missed you."

"No you didn't. Got me dead on there, lady—" comes my lame retort while I try desperately to regain my equilibrium after that amazing kiss. I have no idea what the hell my expression must look like at this moment. Stunned probably.

God she looks great. She's got on a sort of tropical green dress thing like Dorothy Lamour, with pink flowers on her ears. She smells great, all fresh and clean. She tastes great—and I have to break away from that thought because it's a little too much to contend with at six o'clock in the morning, libido flambé as it were.

Heather laughs with embarrassment and looks down.

"I shouldn't have done that, I know," comes her murmur, "But you have no idea how much it meant to me that someone remembered."

I clear my throat a little, feeling a pang deep inside at her words. I haven't gotten much more than an annual card from a maiden aunt myself for the last decade. I let my own birthday go, along with so much else I left behind in New Jersey.

"I don't mind, believe me," I tell her honestly. She lifts her gaze to mine and for a moment, behind the affection in those eyes I see it: a little spark of heat in there and then it's gone, lost behind the blue as she cocks her head.

"Come in—" She tells me, still smiling.

**HEATHER**

For the first time in half a decade I truly have been bad. I gave in to my needy side and kissed Jim, and no amount of easy excuses on my part can hide the fact that I did it and it was good.

Perfect mouth, lovely mouth. Warm lips, firm yet yielding and the answering pressure of them sweetly sensual. The warm masculine scent of his skin, the solidity of his ribs in that enveloping hug . . . I sound like one of the silly heroines in one of Zoe's romance novels, but in truth the sheer sensory overload of being in his body space, of feeling his magnetism drawing me closer is enough to make me blush.

And when I blush, it's very, very apparent.

I lead the way into the house, trying desperately to regain a calm I don't actually feel at the moment. Jim follows me in, his expression patient and amused, his hands full of gift bags. When we make it into the kitchen, I ask him if he's eaten.

"Well actually no, but—" he begins, and I have my cue right there.

"Good. We'll have some cheese omelets then. I was in the mood for them, along with some sausage."

I take the gift bags from him, setting them aside, then hand him the cheese grater and the block of Tillamook. He shoots me a look that tells me he knows perfectly well what I'm doing and why, then gives in with his usual good grace. Slowly, he takes his jacket off and methodically rolls up his sleeves. I pretend not to watch that as I reach into the fridge for eggs, sausage and cream.

Indulging in cooking seems to settle me down, and after a few minutes I glance over to see Jim carefully whittling the cheese block down in strong strokes, on the verge of humming. He looks up at me, eyes bright, and I blush all over again.

I'm going to have to say something.

"Jim—"

"Heather, how much cheese do you want? One cup? Two?" he cuts me off in a mild voice that still manages to convey a smooth control over the conversation. Surprised, I stammer.

"O-one and a half?"

"That's a good compromise," he responds softly and in the little moment I understand. He's talking about a hell of a lot more than cheddar, making it clear that it's going to be all right. Jim gets it. He knows I like him, and that because the very nature of a good relationship between a man and a woman tends to express itself in affectionate gestures he knows my kiss was a part of what we have going.

I'm so grateful for his insight that for a moment I cling to the back of the kitchen chair as a rush of relief hits me. He chuckles.

"Bringing your work home with you this time?"

I shoot him a quizzical glance; he gets that sly look on his face as he murmurs, "You know, beating the eggs, whipping the cream—"

That deserves a mild punch to his upper arm, he grins at me and suddenly things are back in a comfortable mode for us. I pour the cream into the blender bowl, and crack the eggs on the rim, tossing the shells into the sink. A flick of the switch and the magic hum of my Mixmaster purrs out. Jim brings the bowl of shaved cheddar to me and I motion to the spice rack. He pulls salt, pepper, then after a moment's thought, the dried onion flakes. I shoot him an approving look.

"I have part of a loaf of sourdough French in the breadbox if you'd like to slice and toast it—" I suggest.

We cook. I'm pretty good at omelets, and manage to slip the fluffy steaming half moon onto a Jim's plate without a hitch. He hesitates out of good manners, but I urge him to dig in while I pour the rest of the mix into the pan and cook it up. By the time I'm sitting down, we have sausage, toast and fresh glasses of orange juice all neatly clustered between our plates. I shoot him a grateful smile and he lifts his glass.

"A toast to the birthday girl—" he offers lightly. I clink my juice with his, smiling. We eat, and suddenly the appetite I didn't have a few minutes ago has come rushing back. It all tastes good, from the melted cheese to the slightly burnt sausage to the buttered toast.

Jim is finished before me, eating in a way that tells me he probably missed the meal before this one, and I hope it wasn't because he used the time to shop for me. I quickly cut a big chunk of my omelet and slide it onto his plate; he shoots me a sideways look that's pricelessly sweet. Jim Brass would never in a million years ask me, 'are you going to eat that?' so I have to make the first move.

"Please, you're doing me a favor here—" I encourage him. He hesitates a second more, then shrugs and starts in on it with gusto. I lean back, trying to keep my smile small, even though on the inside it's pretty wide. My gaze wanders over to the gift bags and for the first time in years a little thrill of anticipation runs through me as I try to figure out what those three bags might possibly hold.

Jim finishes, wiping his mouth and sighing happily as he sets the napkin down. I glance his way; he grins.

"Your breakfasts are as terrific as your dinners," he rumbles. His empty plate supports the compliment, and I start to clear the table, but he shakes his head.

"Nah let me get that. You can open the cards if you want."

So while he rinses and stacks things in the dishwasher, I slowly study a pair of envelopes on the counter. One's in a lilac envelope, the other white, but both of them have my name across their fronts in Jim's familiar tall strong handwriting.

I opt for the white one first, and it's flowery, with a quote on the front: 'Age before Beauty . . .' as I open it, the line finishes, ' . . . But your case is the exception!' under it, a quick scrawled Happy Birthday and Jim's initials.

I laugh and he shrugs.

"Corny, but what the hell—" comes his mutter.

"Perfect."

The second card, the lilac one is larger. I pull it out, and it's rich vellum, a lovely one with an embossed design around the edges that I suddenly recognize as my namesake. In elegant calligraphy on the inside is a section of a Shakespearean sonnet:

_To me fair friend you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed Such seems your beauty still._

Tears threaten; I head them off by biting my lip, moved by so much in this moment. Jim's added note on the bottom stands out:

_With much affection and warm wishes on your special day—_

_James_

I look up and into Jim's face across the counter as he cocks his head and smiles.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The first bag is small, and I laugh, as I pull out a stainless steel garlic press, state of the art, no less. Next to me on the sofa, stretched out a bit and relaxing, Jim chuckles at my delight.

"I seem to remember someone grumbling about how her old one broke—" he muses out loud as I examine my new toy, well aware this is not a cheap item, not at all.

"It's just what I need to make Twelve Clove chicken for you sometime. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The next bag is a bit bigger, and I reach in, wondering why it's so . . . soft. Curiously, I pull out a long, long length of black and lavender silk with fringes on the ends. It's nearly four feet if it's an inch, and heavy, lined in a way that all good shawls are, and already I know it will go with at least three of my worknight outfits, adding a little touch of Victorian style to my look. Surprised, I glance at Jim.

Jim looks a little embarrassed, but he speaks up in the low quick voice I've come to recognize as his most serious tone.

"Heather, I may not be completely crazy about the way you make your living, but I want you to know that's not out of any moral objections, just the safety issues. However, you're smart and cautious and more than capable of dealing with things I've never even considered. That being said, I figured you might like something to ward off a drafty night."

The quick sultry image of lying in his arms flashes through my mind, but quickly push that away and instead study the shawl, awed by the craftsmanship of such a beautiful accessory.

"It's stunning, Jim. Truly. I'll wear it with pride."

He's smiling, and his ears are pink as I wrap the shawl around my shoulders, luxuriating in the kiss of the lavender silk lining against my skin. I reach out and let part of the fringe brush against his nose; Jim swats at it playfully.

"You still have two more presents," he reminds me. I look at the last bag, but he shakes his head and fishes in his breast pocket, holding out two small rectangles of cardboard.

"Especially for you—I don't take just anybody here you know—" he rumbles. I take the tickets from him and burst into giggles.

"The Liberace museum?" I manage between splutters. Jim nods gravely.

"Promoting that Hungarian heritage of yours. It's educational. Ever been?"

I shake my head, still not quite able to stop laughing, and Jim starts grinning himself. I break the news to him gently.

"Jim, Liberace was Polish."

"All the more reason to be glad you're Hungarian, huh?"

The last bag has a square pink bakery box in it, and my heart is thudding as I recognize the little sticker on the top: Casey's Sweetery. One of the few bakeries in Las Vegas that specializes in sugar-free candy and baked goods. Oh yes---I open the box to a little chocolate cake with pink rosettes and pink icing spelling out 'Happy Birthday Heather' on the top.

I sniffle, surprised I haven't cried before this in all honesty. I'd suspected Jim was sentimental but I hadn't counted on being a recipient of that quality in such lovely ways. He's holding out a clean hankie, and at the sight of it I do burst out crying. Awkwardly he reaches over and rubs my back while I try to pull myself together, wiping my face with soft cotton that hold his scent.

"Oh come on now, birthdays aren't so bad," he assures me, and I start laughing at his comment, knowing he has no clue as to the real basis of my tears.

**BRASS**

Not too bad if I do say so myself—I worried a bit about how the cards would go over, but thank God Heather's sense of humor caught the gist of the first one. She looks great in the shawl, just as I knew she would, regal and truth to tell, damned sexy. There's something about a woman toying with fringe that still gets to me, that mix of flirtation and formality.

We had the cake out in the living room, and since there weren't any candles to stick on it, I told Heather we'd probably have to pass on the spanking too. She winced and told me there was too damned much of it at the Dominion anyway, so no big loss.

A little decaf, some easy talk, and I knew I'd have to leave soon, but it was hard to do. Hard because the minute I was out the door I'd be reliving that kiss again, that velvety moment of her in my arms, thrilled to see me, mouth on mine in a slow sweet press of honest delight.

A moment to cherish. Not that I expect it to happen again in the near future; I can tell Heather's as cautious as I am, not quite ready to move beyond this easy give and take for the moment. But I'd be stupid to think the potential isn't there now, a little more obvious than it was a few months ago.

The sun's coming up into another hot Las Vegas day, and I'm off to bed, to curl up with the satisfying thought that I made someone happy today, and in that gesture, did the same for myself.

And there's always the Liberace Museum to consider too.

**See Chapter 6**


	6. 6

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Chapter 6  
**

**BRASS  
**

I hate crackhouses. Full of garbage and lost souls, and rats of two species scrambling for the exits. We show up to look for a murder suspect and end up in the middle of a riot, panicked druggies and dealers running every which way. There's three of us in this one room, and we think we've cleared it, when all of a sudden somebody's screaming like a maniac behind me, and before I can turn around something slams into my side like Casey at the bat. I hang onto my gun and my balance, just barely, but the explosion of pain in my side knocks the breath right out of me. Somehow, it's always a nasty surprise.

I mean, it's happened before. Some cops go their entire careers without so much as a paper cut, but I wasn't that lucky. One car accident back in Jersey during a chase, a bullet crease on my leg two years later, and I've taken more punches than I can count. Hell, I got hit over the head and knocked out just a couple of years ago. Nothing ever really serious, but man can it hurt.

The screaming stops, and I can hear Officer Carter yelling at someone to put it down, whatever it is. I manage to make the turn, the pain making my vision waver a little. Carter's subduing some poor heap of rags; there's a metal pipe on the ground, and I guess that's what I got hit with. As Carter cuffs 'em, Officer Martinez holsters his gun and looks over at me, and his face is all worried. "You okay Captain?"

With an effort I pull my spine straight. The pain's easing off a tiny bit, and if I keep my breathing shallow I think I can keep it under control. "I'm fine."

I can tell he doesn't believe me, and hell, _I'm_ not sure I believe me. "Carter, go ahead and take 'em out," I tell her. "Martinez, check on progress. Find out if anybody's found our suspect."

He opens his mouth, but I give him one of my patented glares, and he changes his mind and goes out. Wise man. Carter's already gone; I stand in the middle of the room and slide a hand gingerly under my coat.

Just the lightest touch hurts like a sonofabitch. It makes me mad. I hate getting hurt, and I'm going to have to fill out paperwork for getting assaulted. On top of everything, it doesn't exactly look good for a police detective to get blindsided, but when I think about the way that poor specimen was dressed, it's not impossible that we missed 'em. There's several piles of old blankets that someone skinny could have been under, and everybody else had been running away from us. Still, it's a stupid situation.

I debate going after Martinez, but one try at a deeper breath convinces me otherwise. I'm no wuss, but part of being a good cop is not putting your fellow cops in danger by trying something you can't handle. And the nausea churning in my stomach to the throb in my side tells me I'm a liability right now.

I make my way outside, heading slowly for the ambulance at the curb. Standard procedure to have one on hand, for just this kind of situation. The paramedic standing near the back looks up as I get close, and hurries over, all business. He's familiar--Gibson, that's his name.

He takes me to the back of the ambulance and sits me down carefully, and truth to tell, at this point I'm kind of glad to. The pain hasn't really slacked off. Gibson doesn't bother trying to take off my jacket; he just pulls off my tie and unbuttons my shirt for a look at my side, then checks my vital signs. "Well, Captain," he says at last, "I don't think you have any major bleeding going on, but we are going to take you in just for a double-check. How's the pain?"

"I'll manage," I grunt, and start to button up my shirt again, keeping my right elbow away from my side. Gibson retrieves a blanket from somewhere and drapes it over my shoulders.

"Back in a few," he informs me cheerfully. "Any problems, just holler."

So I sit, and watch the cleanup as my men bring out those they caught; eventually Martinez shows up to report that we found our suspect.

Turns out I'm the only one going to the hospital. Arriving in an ambulance does cut down on waiting times, though, and I get to go straight to a cubicle in the ER and fill out forms there instead of in the waiting room. For once it only takes about forty-five minutes before a doc shows up.

As for the exam, it's unpleasant, painful, and involves swearing; just getting my jacket off requires at least three four-letter words. When it's over, I find out I have two cracked ribs and extensive bruising, and the doc gives me a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers but tells me to try over-the-counter first.

There's a uniform waiting to pick me up. I think about telling him to take me back to the station, but shift's just about over, and I know Martinez can handle things on his end, and frankly I just don't have the energy. So he drives me home, and I let myself into my dark house and ease down on the couch, and do the one thing I've been dreading since I realized that this was more than just a bruise.

I call Heather.

It's our morning for dinner, and my turn to cook, and I was planning on something hearty and simple this time--good old steak and baked potatoes--but with my special marinade. I have Yukon Golds and the makings for a terrific salad all sitting in my kitchen, but they're going to have to go on sitting.

I was really looking forward to it, too. There's just something about having her here that makes this place that much more livable--having somebody else in my space, somebody smart and sweet and who smells really nice.

You'd think I'd get used to being disappointed, but somehow I never do.

**HEATHER **

I know the second I hear Jim's voice that something's wrong. Of course, I could tell that there was something off just by the fact that he's calling me at work--some need to change our plans--but he doesn't sound like himself. His voice is quieter than usual, and I can hear the pain in it, though I can tell he's trying to sound normal.

"What happened? What's wrong?" I ask, suddenly worried. Obviously, he's at least partly all right, since he _can_ call, but I don't care. All my instincts are kicking into overdrive.

"Nothing, I'm fine," he says. "I just can't make it this morning."

"Don't bother trying to lie, Jim Brass," I say tartly. "Don't forget who you're talking to."

The sound he makes is halfway to a chuckle. "Should have known I couldn't sneak anything by you. Heather, it's nothing, really. I just got a little banged up today. Nothing serious."

"Uh-huh," I answer. "Watch out for that flying pig."

"Really," he insists. "A couple aspirin and a nap, and I'll be good as new."

He's still lying. I stop trying to argue with him over the phone. "All right," I say. "I--oh, Jim, I'm sorry, I have to go. Something's come up."

It's true enough--one of my assistants is waiting patiently for my attention--but that's not really why I'm cutting the conversation short. "What is it, Pauline?" I ask as soon as I hang up.

"Andrew had to go home--sick headache," she says, and I nod. Andrew's a hard worker and a good one, and I can easily excuse him once in a while for a migraine.

"Thank you. Pauline, I have to leave a little early today. Can you handle lock-up?" It's more than just a courtesy question; Pauline's my right-hand woman, and has many duties. I don't want to overburden her, especially if she has her daughters this week and needs to get home to them. But she smiles back at me, teeth white against her lovely chocolate skin.

"Not a problem, Lady Heather."

I thank her and hurry out.

I go home first, of course. I need to change, and there are a number of things I need to fetch. But not quite an hour later I'm pulling into Jim's driveway. His car's not there, and for a minute I think that maybe he's not home, but then I see the faint light through the living room curtains.

I take a deep breath at the door. We traded spare house keys several weeks ago, in case of emergency, but neither of us has actually used them, and for a moment I'm hesitant about invading Jim's privacy. Then I push the key into the lock. He's hurt. He needs somebody.

The living room is dim, with only one lamp on. Jim's sitting on the couch, his head tilted back, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and if it weren't for the pain evident in the lines of his body it would be a very enticing picture. Then he raises his head slowly and looks at me, and my heart twists a little at the tiredness in his face. "I thought I told you I was fine," he says mildly, but his voice is a little slurred, and I spot the bottle of painkillers and the empty glass on the coffee table.

"And I thought I told you not to lie to me." I set my grocery bag down on the table and shove the table back a little so I have enough space to crouch in front of him. "Well?"

He sighs, and I can see how the grooves around his mouth have been deepened by pain. "Two cracked ribs."

I hiss in sympathy; I fell down a flight of stairs in college, and I remember how much that hurts. Carefully, I unbutton his shirt the rest of the way and part it.

Jim makes a faint noise of protest, but I ignore it. His chest is impressively furry, and while his belly has softened a little with middle age, he's in far better shape than many others I see on a regular basis. What concerns me, though, is the dark bruising spreading from his right side. "Have you been to the hospital?"

"Yeah."

Well, that's something, anyway. I stand up and take my bag into the kitchen, and begin unloading supplies. My hands are shaking a little, and I steady them, telling myself that Jim's fine. Not seriously hurt.

It still takes an effort.

A few minutes later, I go back to the living room bearing an ice pack. "Have you eaten?" I ask briskly. I don't put it past him to try to throw me out, at least verbally--some men just can't handle being taken care of--and I don't intend to give him the opportunity.

But he just shakes his head. "Not hungry," he mumbles.

I sit down on the coffee table and lean forward to put the ice pack against his side. Jim grunts in pain, and I bite my lip, wincing. "Sorry," I say. "But it will help."

My eyes are on what I'm doing, so the hand that crosses his body and takes my wrist gently is a surprise. I look up into eyes dark and narrow with pain and weariness, but there's something else there, an intensity I'm not expecting. "Thanks," he says quietly.

What is it about this man that makes me blush? I move his hand to the ice pack and straighten. "I'll be back in a few minutes," I say, and can't resist leaning forward for a second to run the palm of my hand over his head. The soft brush of his hair makes my skin tingle, and somehow my hand carries the stroke down his temple and over his cheek. Our eyes lock again, and my stomach flips, but I remind myself fiercely that now is not the time, and turn away for the kitchen.

**BRASS **

Okay, I'll admit that I've imagined Heather unbuttoning my shirt with those long, clever fingers, but I sure never imagined it like this. When she hung up the phone earlier, I thought maybe she was pissed at me for canceling, though it didn't really seem like her, but I hurt too much to really think about it. I figured I could apologize later if I had to.

I definitely didn't imagine her showing up at my front door, though I guess I really should have expected it. Heather's a take-charge kind of gal. She's wearing jeans and a purple shirt, and her hair's down, but she hasn't washed off her makeup. I know guys aren't really supposed to notice that kind of thing, but hey, I'm a detective. I know the difference between the heavy stuff she wears at work and what she puts on the rest of the time.

Now she's in my kitchen, doing I don't know what, and she's right--the ice pack is making me feel a little better. Some part of me is bothered by her, by anybody being in my personal space when I'm not feeling good. But the rest of me is grateful. It feels weird to have somebody care, but it's a great kind of weird.

It's funny--I'm still mad at myself for getting blindsided. Carelessness is a good way to get killed. But it's gotten me Heather's help, and while I hate to need it...man, it's nice.

Eventually she comes back out with one of my big mugs filled with something that smells delicious. Her feet are bare again--she seems to get rid of her shoes as quick as she can--and I think idly how natural she looks in my place. She's not a guest this morning--she belongs here.

The soup does smell good, but I'm really not hungry. It doesn't look like I get a choice, though. Heather sits down right next to me, and forget crossing personal spaces--her leg's pressed right up against mine, and before I know it, her arm's slipping behind my back to help me sit up a little more. It's a situation I would love to make more of in better circumstances, but right now all it does is make things hurt more.

"Drink," Heather says firmly, and I take the mug before she decides she has to feed me herself. I take a sip, and it really is good; I can feel my brows going up. Sage, celery, garlic, and just hot enough to be tasty but not enough to burn my tongue. "Another family recipe?" I ask.

Heather pulls back her arm, but she doesn't move away. "My father's mother made the best chicken soup I've ever tasted," she says, grinning a little. "Good for what ails you...no matter what it is."

Another sip, and I have to agree. I take little swallows, not wanting to aggravate my side, and the rich stuff starts to improve my mood, along with the feel of the woman next to me. Heather's sweet smell mixes with the steam from the mug, and when I get about two-thirds down I shoot her a look. "When's the last time _you_ ate?"

She blinks. "Good point," she murmurs, and stands up. I'm sorry to lose her warmth pressed up against my left side, but I sure as hell don't want her skipping meals. She vanishes into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with her own mug, and this time she sits down in one of the chairs instead of next to me, and I'm sorry about that. "What happened?" she asks softly.

I shrug--left shoulder only. "Got snuck up on."

Her eyes go fierce. "Did you catch him?"

"Yeah."

She nods and relaxes a little, and for a while we just sit, drinking soup. The pain in my side gets a little duller, thanks to the ice, and I keep my eyes on Heather, too blitzed to care if she notices me staring. It's peaceful, and I can feel my eyelids dragging...

**HEATHER **

Poor wounded warrior. Part of me just wants to ease him down on that couch and cover him up, but it's too narrow and short for somebody who's hurt. I stand up and tiptoe into the hallway, trying not to feel like an intruder as I ease open his bedroom door.

It's a typically masculine room--heavy furniture and a dark comforter on the rather messy bed. The room's air is still and warm, and smells like Jim--clean and male and a hint of musk. There's one low bookshelf, and a glance at it makes me smile--here are the fantasy volumes he pretends to be ashamed of. I choose one paperback at random; the cover is awful and tattered, but the title touches me because I remember it--_A Wrinkle in Time._ No dragons, but definitely a classic.

I slide the book back and turn my attention to his bed. The mattress is queen-sized and looks divinely comfortable. I pull back the covers and push the pillows aside. He'll be most at ease lying relatively flat.

He's still asleep when I come back out, and I really hate to wake him, but sleeping sitting up will half-cripple him. I shake his shoulder gently. "Jim...wake up. Time to go to bed."

Those midnight eyes open, peering up at me a little blearily. "I can sleep here," he mutters.

"No you can't. Come on."

It takes a little coaxing, and some help, to get him to his feet, and I can see his jaw clenching as he stands. But he shakes off my arm when he gets his balance, and I roll my eyes. _Men._

I trail him into his bedroom, one hand under his elbow just in case, but he manages to make it there without any problems. Jim sits gingerly down on the mattress, blinking at me.

I kneel down and pull off his shoes and socks, revealing strong pale feet with hairy toes. There's something terribly intimate about doing this for him, but I'm trying not to think about it just now.

"Shirt off," I say firmly, sliding it down his shoulders. I have to lean over him to pull it free of his good arm, and I can hear his intake of breath; I glance down and realize that this position gives him a rather good view down my own shirt. Amusement washes over me at the realization that Jim is gentleman enough to do no more than look...and man enough to enjoy the view. But it's a brief glimpse: I straighten and move around him to slip the other sleeve off. This time the swearing escapes a little, and while the back of my mind is admiring the breadth of Jim's shoulders and the muscles in his arms, I'm more worried about his side. The bruising is centered halfway down his chest under his arm, but spreads both front and back.

"Belt," he mumbles, and pulls his off laboriously before swinging his legs onto the bed and lying down with another hiss of pain.

"Do you want another ice pack?" I ask, but he grunts a negative.

I hesitate, then start to get up. Again, my wrist is snagged in his big grip. "Heather..."

I wait. Jim's eyes are already closed, and my fingertips itch to try to smooth the lines from his face. "Stay for a bit?"

Well, that does it. My heart melts. "Of course," I say softly.

He sighs, and I lean down to pull the covers up over him. He keeps his left arm free so that it lies against my thigh; I give in to impulse and reach out to stroke his forehead gently. "I'll be here if you need anything," I tell him.

It doesn't take him long to fall back asleep, but I stay there a while longer. Indulging myself. I have to admit, it feels wonderful to be needed again. I'm as proud of my daughter as any mother can be; I admire her strength and her courage in going to college so far away. But it's left me without someone to look after, and this morning at least that need is filled.

Though there's no way I would mistake this man for a child. When I catch myself nodding, I am very tempted just to slide into the bed with him. There's plenty of room, and something tells me he wouldn't object. But in the end, I know it wouldn't be fair. Jim wouldn't do anything without my permission, but it would be mean of me to get that close when I'm not absolutely sure of where we're going.

Jim's couch is surprisingly comfortable. I find an extra blanket in the linen closet and wrap myself up, switching on my "mother's ear" so I'll wake if he needs me. But he doesn't, and I wake midafternoon to the smell of coffee. Apparently Jim has a timer on his machine.

The first thing I do is check on him, but it looks like he hasn't even moved all day. The lines of pain in his face have lightened somewhat. Some people look younger when they are asleep, but he just looks innocent, as though he'd never spoken a double entendre in his life. I leave him a glass of orange juice and the bottle of painkillers, and go to check my blood sugar.

The next order of business is some toast; I'm halfway through my second slice when I hear the shower start, which reminds me how grubby I feel. The best I can do is a quick washup at the kitchen sink and a brush through my hair. I'm pouring two mugs of coffee when Jim pads out into the kitchen, bare-chested, and I gulp a little at his uncovered state even as I wince at the polychromatic bruise on his side. He seems a little surprised to see me, but a grin spreads slowly over his face, which is still bristly.

"I thought I dreamed you," he teases, and I snort, getting my balance back.

"No such luck. How are you feeling?"

"Sore," he admits, snagging one of the mugs. "I can't figure out how to put on a shirt, and while I really oughta go in to work, I'm seriously thinking about blowing it off tonight."

"You should," I tell him, taking a sip of my own coffee. "Cracked ribs are nothing to be careless of, Jim, believe me."

He raises a brow, but doesn't ask. "I can help you with the shirt," I offer. Telling myself it's just that. Help.

"I'd appreciate it," he says ruefully. "But finish your coffee first. Did you sleep okay?"

"Fine," I say, setting my crumby plate in the sink.

"You didn't have to," comes his soft voice behind my back.

"I didn't mind, Jim, truly," I say to the faucet. "What else are friends for?"

"Good question." But by the time I turn he's staring into his own mug.

The shirt's a delicate maneuver; Jim's not in quite as much pain this morning, but his muscles are stiff, and I can tell he's embarrassed to be needing help. So I keep my expression as matter-of-fact as possible as I ease the sleeve over his right arm. "Make sure to take some painkillers," I tell him as he lowers his arm carefully. "And remember to ice it a few times."

"Yes, mother," he grumbles, and I chuckle; he shoots me a mischievous look.

"I'll make you some breakfast before I go."

I scramble eggs to the faint sound of his electric razor, and make some more coffee; his normal ration is apparently two cups at least, but I drank half. When he returns to the kitchen, his shirt is still undone but his face is smooth. "I have to go," I say apologetically, not wanting to leave him but knowing I'm running out of time.

Jim looks at the plate on the table and shakes his head, then startles me by walking over and embracing me with his good arm. "Heather," he says next to my ear, "you're a doll. Thank you."

I slip one arm around his left side and the other around his neck and return the hug, enjoying the solid warmth of him and his breath in my hair. His cheek presses against my hair, and he smells scrumptious, fresh aftershave and soap. For a long moment we just stand there, absorbing the feel of each other, both of us hovering on the edge of something more but choosing not to go there...not just yet. Then duty nags at me. "If you need anything, call," I tell him finally, and let him go.

It hurts a little to leave him, and I know I'm going to be calling him at least once tonight to check up on him. But what stays with me the most vividly as I go home and prepare for my night's work is the light press of his arm against my leg this morning. The trust.

It's important.

**BRASS **

Usually the alarm wakes me, but today I wake up in stages, first trying to remember why my side aches so much, then floating a little, images cruising past my mind's eye. Flashes of Heather smiling down at me, touching my face, sitting next to me. Hands tugging off my shirt with careful gentleness. Hair brushing against my cheek. The blue lace on the edge of her--

My eyes pop open at that. Proof that she wasn't a dream sits on my bedside table in the form of a glass of juice. I wince a little, trying to straighten out my memories and wondering how many painkillers I took this past morning. I remember getting ambushed, yeah, that would be hard to forget. I remember getting home, and taking the pills, and calling Heather. And I guess my memory of her coming over and fixing me soup and touching my face is a real one.

As my thoughts pull together, a grin crosses my face. If those memories are real, then so was the glimpse of lingerie, and the feel of her hand stroking my forehead while I fell asleep. _Whoa. _

Sitting up is a bitch, but I manage it. I'm stiff and sore as hell, but I do feel a little better than I did this morning. I down a few more painkillers with the juice--_bless you, Heather_--and drag myself into the bathroom. A hot shower will help loosen things up, anyway.

Before I step into the shower I take a long look at myself in the mirror, trying to be objective. Okay, I've never been a heartthrob and no man looks his best first thing in the morning, but to be fair I could be worse. I've got a bit of a spare tire, but I'm in halfway decent shape for a man my age. I'm going bald, but not too much yet. The hair on my chest is going white--which looks a bit weird--but--

I shake my head at my reflection. I don't even know if Heather likes fuzzy guys. I may not be a Frankenstein's monster but I'm no prime catch either. Especially not with the huge blotch over the right side of my ribcage. I touch it gingerly; yep, it still hurts. I sigh a little--gently, so as not to make things worse--and step into the shower.

Clean clothes can give a man a brighter outlook on the world, except I can't quite manage the shirt. I wonder if Heather's even still here, and decide to chance it. It's not like she hasn't seen me half-naked already.

I find her in my kitchen, looking a little rumpled but adorable. Our eyes meet for an instant, and the flash of heat in hers makes me remember the feel of her lips on mine a few weeks ago, and suddenly I feel a whole lot more confident.

Heather insists on helping me put on a shirt, and it's really kind of embarrassing. I don't mind a lovely woman taking my clothes _off_, but putting 'em back on again.... But she also insists on making me breakfast, and I have to admit that I enjoy that. Though when I get my arm working right again, I'm going to have to do something extra-special for her.

I know Heather has to get to work, but I really don't want her to go. It's not the fact that she's taking care of me--it's that she feels so right here, like she belongs in this house. With me. It's easy to tell by looking at her that she doesn't want to leave either, and I realize I'm hoping that it's not just because she's a good nurse who doesn't want to leave her patient alone.

But she has to go, and she does, and the place is twice as empty when she's gone. I sigh and stare at the blanket she left folded up on the back of the couch, and then the light dawns--I don't have to wait until my ribs are better.

After all, I have Husky's number memorized.

**See Chapter 7**


	7. 7

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Chapter 7  
**

**HEATHER**

I am not a coward. I'm not easily intimidated, cowed or unsettled; the line of work I'm in doesn't allow for that to any degree because it spoils the illusion of power. I wear the mask of supreme indifference while facing my clients, and sometimes it takes a little effort at downtime at home before I'm relaxed enough to let it go.

I repeat, I am not a coward.

But the carcass on the back seat of my car is a bit more than I can handle, and my fingers tremble as I punch the speed dial of my phone. It's Saturday afternoon, I'm standing here in my blue yoga leotard in my driveway, hoping Jim's not still asleep. My eyes keep flickering back to the blood pooling on the vinyl seat as the phone rings.

"Heather?" Jim's voice, deep, cautious but pleased. I open my mouth and my own tone sounds strained and high, even to my own ears.

"Jim, I have something you need to see right away, can you come?" I flinch at my unintended double entendre. "Over that is?"

"Okay hon, slow down. What's wrong?" His voice is soothing now, steadying me like a hand to the shoulder. I turn away from the mangled mess in my car and take in a deep breath in grateful response.

"There's something dead in my car. Recently dead because the blood's dripping—"

"--Jesus. On my way, don't touch a THING," comes the hard order. I flinch at the tone now, but relief floods through me as well. Feeling a little wobbly I go and lean against the porch, clicking the phone off and waiting.

It's getting worse.

Jim knows about the notes and the small vandalisms; I'm not stupid enough to think it's not a matter for the cops, but this—if my tormentor thinks he can creep me out, he's starting to succeed. Hate mail I'm used to, the occasional obscene phone call or nasty package coming to the Dominion are all part of a day's work, but this is my home, a place I've worked hard to keep in anonymity. Here, the stakes are much more personal.

It started with a single note slipped under my windshield. I kept it for Jim, who frowned at it and told me to let him know if anything else showed up. The note wasn't enough to spoil our Chicken Parmesan, but it wasn't the last of its kind. Since that first one two weeks ago, things have gotten steadily worse in increments.

Fifteen hang up calls interrupted my sleep in one afternoon.

My hummingbird feeder was smashed.

Dog excrement was left on my porch.

It's disheartening to say the least, and the only two bright spots in the whole situation are that Ms. Willows of the Crime Lab has dedicated herself to the case, resolved to pull anything she can from the evidence. The other is Jim's determination to find the perpetrator from that evidence, come the proverbial hell or high water.

Jim—It's both flattering and frightening to see him in full professional mode when he comes to my door, eyes scanning the neighborhood, his frame tense and alert. Only when we're inside does he pull me into a hug, which has become my personal haven in this past fortnight. I cling to him, not ashamed at needing the reassurance now that we're in private. Strong I may be, but it's an amazing comfort to have someone else here, someone who knows what's going on.

He smells so good. He always does, and I know my own body chemistry reacts to him in ways beyond my conscious control. Jim slides a hand up the back of my neck, cradling my head while his other arm slips around my waist, bracing me against him. It's his hug, his way of holding me, and I relax into it, feeling cherished when he sighs.

"Muuuuuch better—okay, Catherine's going to be here in a few minutes. Tell me what happened," he murmurs. I hide my relieved smile against his shoulder; this isn't the usual sort of police interview, but I'm not about to let go. I turn my head a little, my breath heating the open collar of his shirt.

"I got back from my Yoga class about twenty minutes ago. I took my purse in, and left the car in the driveway because I've still got the can for the yard clippings blocking the garage. I had some juice and came back out and found whatever it was on the back seat."

"It's a cat. Was a cat," he corrects himself mildly, "and a big one at that. You know the pets around here?"

"Mrs. Nagatori has a Golden retriever named Henry. I don't know the people on the other side of me, but they don't have a pet." I know I'm babbling now, that none of this is terribly important. What matters is how warm and lovely it is to hold this man, to feel him holding me. I'm suddenly aware of how thin my leotard is, and I think Jim realizes it at the same time; reluctantly he starts to let go.

"Catherine might need to check you for any stray evidence so you can't change just yet, but when she's done you should." He pulls back enough for me to look up into his face and read his expression. Part of it is flinty; the anger and frustration he's feeling about this malicious creep. The other part, though, is making my bones dissolve like Alka Seltzer, a long slow patient glance of tender desire.

I wonder if I look like that back at him? Carefully I pull away and go to the door to stand on the porch. He waits for a moment and joins me, his expression much milder now. I feel the warmth of his shoulder pressing against mine.

"I'm staying."

I look up at him, pleased and alarmed at the same time. Jim sets his jaw and speaks again, softly, urgently.

"Guys like this have a pattern, Heather. The first incidents are always to get your attention and annoy you. Then they begin to accelerate that persecution with more destructive and violent actions until either they get caught or you get hurt. I'm staying here to make sure it's the former over the latter."

I shoot a sidelong look at him as a black Denali shows up at the curb, followed by a police car. I recognize the red hair of Ms. Willows right away.

"Define staying, Jim."

"Here. Overnight. With you." He adds as an afterthought, "Platonically."

I shoot him a look through my lashes.

"And this has nothing to do with tonight's NHL semi-final, which would look ever so much better on my wide screen THX enhanced entertainment system?"

He tries for wide-eyed innocence, but it doesn't quite work. "Was that tonight?"

I roll my eyes; Jim wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes.

"Heather, I'm serious. This guy sees that black and white, he's going to know you're seriously rattled and chances are good he'll try again tonight. He's getting off on the thrill of keeping you on edge, and I want to nail the bastard ASAP."

**BRASS**

I can feel the anger boiling up inside and it's taking everything I've got to keep it channeled into the right sort of action. Part of me's absolutely ready to kick ass over this damned stalking. Bad enough when it happens to citizens I don't know personally, good people caught in ugly situations stemming from twisted emotions.

But this is personal. I know Heather. Not as well as I'd like to on a whole bunch of levels, but that's neither here nor there. The fact remains that this ugly string of incidents is pissing me off to the Nth degree now. I have to keep a lid on it though because I don't want to upset Heather anymore than she already is, and because right now isn't the time to vent. First we catch the weasel, THEN I can have a skank barbeque.

Speaking of barbeque, I'm feeling a different kind of heat too, one that's not the sort I can even begin to pretend isn't there. I'm talking about holding Heather; simply having permission to pull her to me to reassure her. The feel of those curves against me burns right through whatever layers of clothing are between us. It's been so damned long since I've had anyone take comfort from me in this way.

God I've missed having a woman in my arms.

Actually I've missed having a woman in a lot of other places, but that's not the primary issue here. Heather is counting on me to help her, and I'm not about to let her down. So I go back out and greet Catherine over by the Miata. She's already got gloves on and has bagged the body; it's on the sidewalk. The patrolman is keeping the few nosy neighbors busy by talking to them, giving me a chance to do the same with Catherine. She jumps right into it, all business.

"Can't tell you for sure but it looks as if kitty here had her throat slit. There are a few drops along the sidewalk but not many. I think our stalker killed kitty up the street and carried it in a paper bag or shopping bag before dumping it here. How's Heather?"

Something in her tone makes me turn up my blandest expression. Catherine's good at intuition, frighteningly so at times, and I suspect she probably smells my blend of testosterone and anxiety. Sort of an Eau de Infatuation. She's seen me talking to Heather and obviously put a few pieces together without comment, so I give a sigh.

"A little upset, but it takes a lot to rattle her cage."

"Know that for a fact?" Catherine teases, then gives me a little shake of her head, "Not my business, I know. Sorry."

"It's okay. So what else have you got?"

"Valesco out in QD says the notes are extremely weird. Something about a personality disorder, big surprise, but also some inconsistencies not only from note to note, practically line to line. They have male and female characteristics, as if the writer is having some identity issues."

I ponder that for a moment and realize it fits the profile of a few of Heather's associates. She's got three recently fired employees, two of whom we've talked to. The third is supposedly out of town until next week, but we've been trying to track him down. One out for stealing, one for personal reasons, and the other for chronic absenteeism—all legitimate grounds for letting them go, but three suspects isn't making my job any easier. My frustration must show on my face because Catherine is shooting me a look of determination.

"Jim, I've got some hairs that don't come from kitty, and a possible partial bloody print here on the back of the seat, so the evidence is looking hot at the moment. Let me get this back to the lab and we may be able to put a name to our perp."

"Beautiful. I'm camping out here for a while, so you know where to reach me. Taking the cat with you?"

Catherine sighs. "Oh yeah, puss in bag. I hope it wasn't hers."

I shake my head. It's a small comfort, but I'm glad the pet wasn't Heather's.

By the time the black and white and Catherine are gone it's getting near twilight. Heather is still on the porch, arms crossed, rubbing her shoulders, looking tense. I motion for her to go inside and she does with me right behind her. Heather moves to the kitchen to pull a pair of bottled waters out and hands one to me.

It tastes good going down, and helps ease some of the awkwardness between us. I appreciate the gesture, knowing that she's making the effort to relax. She tips her head at me and shakes her bangs a bit.

"So. It's Saturday evening for a pair of night owls. What do you do on your nights off, Jim? " she asks me softly before sipping her bottle. I shrug.

"Hockey. A good book. Maybe some household chores I didn't get to during the week."

She smiles at me, and I see again how deep her dimples are when she does, little sweet commas framing her mouth. She sets her water down, and moves past me, brushing lightly, looking back over her shoulder.

"How are you at folding laundry?" Heather demands, looking like her old self for the first time all evening. I grin.

"My towels haven't complained yet."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I'm parked in front of a television screen wider than Schwartzenegger's chest, with the third quarter of a grudge match between the Red Wings and the Ducks playing and the amazing thing is that my attention is not on the screen. One very big distraction is keeping me from enjoying my hockey fix here.

Heather is off in the back of the house, showering. I can hear the water, the muted hiss of those dual showerheads coming through under the timbre of the announcer's voice. That subtle sound is driving me nuts along with the knowledge that she's less than twenty feet away from me.

Naked.

Wet.

And without a doubt, gorgeous.

Oy! Torture like this I do not need, particularly since I'm supposed to be listening for anyone creeping around outside. My attention should be focused on the job, not the perks. Part of me is totally annoyed that it's come to this. Heather is my friend, and more importantly my responsibility tonight. This isn't a social visit, it's a duty, and even though there's hockey on, that alone should be the extent of my personal indulgences, right?

Yeah, tell that to my . . . never mind. We've already got an uneasy understanding about Heather because what a single, slightly desperate grown man indulges in once in a while in the privacy of his own bedroom isn't really the issue right now. Every person has his make your own entertainment moments and yours truly here is no exception. So while I might treat myself to thoughts that are taboo, there's a time and place for it and it ain't here.

Then I hear the shower stop, and that doesn't help at ALL.

Because now I know she's all sleek and wet, stepping out and reaching for a towel. Cutting off that thought I get up and stalk over to the kitchen window, twitching back a tiny edge of curtain to look out. Pretty peaceful neighborhood. A few people out, walking dogs in a group. I sigh.

Dinner was good. Heather made something called twelve Clove Chicken, using the garlic press I got her for her birthday. Baking made the garlic lose its sharpness, so the mellow flavor was terrific on the chicken and over a bed of rice. The whole time we ate Heather was making jokes about how the two of us wouldn't need any stakes or crosses to ward off vampires now. That led to a discussion of horror films and who was the best Dracula, and we ended up agreeing that Christopher Lee single-handedly put the ham in Hammer Films.

I watched her clear the table, and it dawned on me that life was really good at that point. Except for the threat outside, I could be perfectly content with having Heather bustling around in a kitchen, chatting to me like this for the next twenty, thirty years of my life. We have rapport; we click in meaningful ways. And just as this little insight is bowling me over, she leans down, kisses the top of my head, then asks me to take out the garbage.

I know better than to fight the domestication of Jim Brass.

A sound behind me makes me turn from the window and I see Heather coming towards me, damp and clean, her hair still turbaned in a towel. She's got on fuzzy button-down flannel pajamas in her namesake shade, showing off her curves in an almost innocent way. Almost. Her expression asks the question and I shake my head.

"Ah. And how is your hockey team doing then?"

I glance guiltily at the screen, realizing I have no clue what the score is.

**HEATHER**

In this strange good news/bad news situation, Jim is definitely the good part of the equation tonight. I can't really explain it, but just having him around is calming, even though I feel my pulse speed up every time he leans close to me, or hugs me. If I had to put it in easier terms I suppose it would be safe to say he's very grounding for me.

Comforting.

I definitely LIKE being comforted by Jim. Feeling his arms around me shifts tension from my shoulders to my lower stomach and thighs. Places where I haven't felt tension in a long, long time. I'm human enough to know part of this is sheer animal attraction and I refuse to fight it anymore.

Jim still is.

So I'm very careful not to tease, not to push him beyond the limits he's set for himself, even if that frustrates me a little. He's worth waiting for, and right now I content myself in appreciating every moment together. I've been able to get through six years of non-involvement; surely I can manage a few months more?

And they believe only men take cold showers. Still, I needed to wash away the memory of the cat and concentrate on who might be doing this. I know the police have talked to Sammie and Diana, but where Javier has gone I have no idea. He always did have a restless persona, which made him so good on the interactive website. And that reminds me that I've got to set up interviews for next week, if Pauline has any replacement candidates ready.

Jim is looking perplexed; I look around, pulling the towel from my hair and drying my ears a bit.

"Missed the end of it?"

"Ah, yeah. Thought I'd check the view from the window and see if anything suspicious is happening. You have a lot of pet owning neighbors."

"It's suburbia," I remind him as I finger-comb my hair. "People here have mortgages, pets, children . . ."

" . . . Lives," he finishes with a small unreadable smile, which confuses me. I shrug at that, and Jim's eyes crinkle up a bit. He points with his chin back to the living room, then settles in on one end of the sofa, back in a comfort zone. I curl up on the other end facing him and check my fingernails, deciding I don't need to redo the polish until tomorrow, but the toes could probably use a new shade. He looks at my toes with me.

"Why do you do that? You hardly ever wear sandals, and none of your standard work stilettos are open, so no one's going to see them--why do you polish your toenails, Heather?" he asks in a warm, curious tone, and I feel a tingle at the hint of flirtation in his words. Gently, I extend a foot out in front of us both, flexing it a bit.

"Because when I was an Avon lady, I was obliged to wear their makeup as part of my employment and got into the habit. I like the sense of pampering that polishing my toenails gives me."

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly at that, and I find myself laughing at his reaction, simply enjoying his masculine amusement. Lightly I bat his shoulder with my toes; he turns to face me.

"Oh come on, even I earn the right pamper myself once in a while you know. I work hard for the money."

Jim nods quickly; then he catches my feet in his hands and I quiver at the warm press of them against my heels, the balls of my feet.

"Considering what you put these tootsies into every night, I'd have to agree. You know, way too many professions in this town are cruel to women's feet."

As he speaks he's rubbing, oh dear Lord the sweet strength of his fingers along my insoles has me clutching at the sofa arm in sheer bliss. Powerful careful strokes of his thumbs along the bottoms of my feet, subtle pressure against my toes, flexing them in a slow easy way that has me close to gasping out loud. Jim looks up, gauges my expression.

"Is this okay?"

"Lovely," I choke, on the verge of purring. Through my pleasure I realize how big his palms are, and how he's being careful to hold back his grip as he continues his thoughtful, sensual massage. When he starts slowly lacing his fingers between my toes though, the tickle is too much and I squeal.

"Jim, Jim--!"

He stops, shoots me a soft little glance and gently sets my feet down on the sofa cushion between us. The loss of his touch makes me sigh with disappointment. I shoot him a slightly pleading look, hoping he'll know what I want. Lightly he runs a finger over the top of my left foot.

"You don't have to stop—"

"Yes, I do," he tells me abruptly. His slightly woebegone expression hits me at that moment, his look of yearning, and I can't stand it one minute more. Very carefully I shift forward towards him, passing through that delicate border of personal space. Jim watches me, never blinking, and I can see how utterly soulful his eyes really are.

Intense. This lovely moment is so full of promise and tension.

"Why?" I breathe on him, drinking in the details of his face, so familiar to me now: the small laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the snub end of his nose, his long eyelashes.

"Because I still can," he admits, swallowing hard. And that's what does it, that little innocent sign that Jim Brass is definitely as attracted to me as I am to him. Very slowly, I lean closer and kiss him.

Oh yessss. Firm lips, very warm, tempting me on. Heat's flaring now, from his skin, from mine, merging as I my eyes flutter closed, all the better to focus on the taste of him. Before I can even think about it, my tongue slips out to lightly brush his lower lip, tickling it, teasing it. Jim moves, one big hand cupping the back of my neck gently and deepens the kiss with such a degree of controlled passion that I begin to melt against him.

Oh God, who could have known he could KISS like this? I can't think, I can't stop, all I can do it hang on and let my tongue follow the lead of his, stroking and sliding ever so sweetly deeper into my mouth. For once in my life I actually resent having to breathe since it forces me to pull away and gasp a little.

"Ohhhh!" I can feel my blush, flaring across my face. I must look like a Beefsteak tomato right now, but it doesn't matter because Jim's indigo eyes are half-closed, his smile secret and sweet.

"You are a helluva temptation, Heather," he tells me huskily, his words slow and serious. It's a compliment and a plea all in one, warming the rest of me right down to my toes because he means it so much. I can't think of an answer, so I slowly kiss him again, letting my hands come up to cup his face and keep him right with me as I do so.

Yielding, he lets me kiss him this time, smiling against my lips, letting my tongue explore the hot flavor of his mouth. It's divine. Jim tastes wonderful, faintly of dinner, mostly of himself and I feast on him, breaking away to kiss his nose, his cheeks, his chin. By now I'm practically sprawled on him, like some sort of possessive Siamese, but he's got his arms around me in that hug I know is mine alone.

And this is very good.

**BRASS**

I owe Oscar Wilde one hell of a thank you. Yielding to temptation is absolutely the way to go when it's in a nicely packaged one hundred and fifteen pounds of Heather Marazek draped on my chest kissing the living daylights out of me. And brother, can this woman kiss—lush hot little mouth, mine for the plundering at the moment so I'm not wasting any time in getting to know that teasing tongue of hers. Against mine, it's sweeter than honey, sinuous and silky.

A few more kisses, slower now, easy give and take as we learn what we like, what we need. I'm not sure about her, but I'm getting a lot of needs met at the moment. Not just the physical stuff, although that's incredible, but more like an infusion of faith in me. Unbelievable. Heather kisses with her whole heart behind it and it's almost too much to take in, this blending of animal and spiritual passion.

But I'm giving as good as I get—trying anyway. I haven't kissed anyone like this in longer than I care to admit, which explains part of the hunger. Her taste, her scent, her warm weight, oh man—it's good I'm not as impulsive as I used to be, or things would be getting WAY out of hand. Much as I want Heather, I'm not going to screw this up.

By the time we've slackened up to a quiet cuddle, I can feel the soft vibration of her laugh through her chest against mine. She tips her face up to me, those eyes amazingly bright.

"Oh Jim, you have NO idea how much I've needed to do that . . ." she informs me in that shyly formal tone of hers. I used to think it was a bit standoffish, but now I know it's just her way. I keep stroking her long back, the width of my palms almost spanning her small waist. Heather wants to use me for a mattress; hey, I'm good with it here.

Even if I am a bit--lumpy--in areas.

"Not half as much as I have, sweetheart," I counter honestly. Sure it's an old-fashioned term of endearment, but her smile widens a bit, and she rubs her nose on mine. Before either of us can say a word through, I hear the sound of footsteps outside, scurrying beyond the window. And that kicks it right there.

Libido off, Cop mode on.

I gently shift Heather off of me and move to the kitchen, grabbing my gun from my holster in one quiet move. I'm glad I still have my shoes on. She looks to me, alert and tense but quiet; letting me do my job, thank God. I motion for her to stay put, then move out through the sliding glass door into the backyard, taking a moment to listen.

More footfalls, muffled by grass, but still too heavy for a loose dog. I quietly unlatch the fence gate and slip through, holding the gun low, trying to stay in the shadow of the side of the house and peer around the corner.

Short figure in black sweats and hooded shirt, fumbling with an olive drab canister I recognize: Tear gas, military issue. Definitely a nasty no-no, and more than enough to rack up a few charges. I push away from the wall and brace myself, bringing my Glock up. There's enough light from the streetlight and the porch so that I'm pretty visible.

"Drop it and put your hands up!" I call to the punk. He swings towards me, his body language almost comical. The canister rolls from his hands and lands with a soft 'thump' in the grass as I advance, keeping my sights on him.

"Wanna tell me what you're doing on private property with an illegal weapon, pal?"

"It's not a weapon," comes his whiny protest. I get closer and realize something's off about this kid.

The rounded hips, the contralto voice--as I motion for him pull back the hood, I see a face I recognize.

Sammie Torado, former employee of the Dominion, and thief, according to Heather's report. The light-fingered lady who managed to pilfer funds that weren't hers.

And was fired for it.

The strobing lights of a black and white flicker over the yard as it rolls up and the officers launch themselves out, flanking me. Sammie shoots hateful looks at all of us, but I'm not worried about my feelings getting hurt by that glare. I motion for the officers to disarm and cuff her, then walk over to Heather, who's at the front door, phone in hand. She blinks for a moment, then slides an arm around me and hugs tightly. Very tightly.

"That was frightening," she murmurs in a voice she's barely got under control and I nod a little.

"A little," I agree, feeling the adrenaline start to fade. I've got a long night ahead of me now—questioning, booking and filing. So much for a quiet night on the sofa with Heather. I sigh, and she rests her head on my shoulder, lips against my neck in an amazingly sensual press as she speaks.

"I guess this means you have to go . . ."

"Yeah." What I wouldn't give to get out of it, but it's my case and Heather's safety, so it's gotta be done. I wave to the black and white; it rolls off with Sammie in the back. Heather reluctantly pulls away from me, going into the house and I follow her.

She helps me into my jacket, smoothing the collar, touching in all those ways a woman does when she's trying to be strong. Once we reach her door I kiss her again, soft and deep, tasting her sweetness; for a moment we cling together in a warm tight bond that goes beyond words. Finally Heather smiles up at me.

"When this is all over and done, I think we ought to celebrate, don't you?"

I smile at her.

"I know just the place to go--"

**See Chapter 8**


	8. 8

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment. **

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Chapter 8  
**

**HEATHER**

It's the silliest thing, really. We've been spending time together for months, now. We've bared more of our souls than many people manage in years of marriage; we've seen each other in deeply vulnerable situations. And yet I'm nervous.

There's no reason to be. I let a sigh out and go back to my closet, the one that holds my play clothes rather than my work outfits. This is Jim. My friend. A man in whose protective arms I've stood, whose bruises I've tended. I've seen past the grin and the cop facade to the shadows in those midnight eyes, and the humor. All this is, is dinner--again. We're just going out to eat instead of staying in. That's all.

So why does it feel like a date?

I grumble to myself and start paging through the hangers, rejecting as I go. No...no...definitely not. Jim said the restaurant isn't very formal, but for some reason I feel that slacks just won't do. I wish Zoë were here--she's got a great eye for style, and she'd know exactly what I should wear. But then--she'd tease me mercilessly, too.

I snicker to myself and keep going. It's amazing what one can accumulate even when one doesn't have a major social life. I pass over blouses and jackets, feeling vaguely that none of them are quite right.

Then I push three sweaters out of the way, and let out my breath. There it is. _The_ dress. I'd forgotten about it, which wasn't surprising given that I'd only worn it twice. Once when Zoë took me out for my birthday two years ago, and once when I visited her at Harvard last year. In fact, it was she who made me buy it, ignoring my protests that I was too old for it.

I take it down, hoping that it still fits as well as it did last spring. I hold it up in front of me before the mirror, and once again it surprises me, just as it did the first time I tried it on. Lavender linen with a halter top and a wide full skirt, it's a little unusual and just about 180 degrees from my work gear. The color makes my skin look warmer and my eyes a little deeper, and while I told Zoë that the cut was too young for me, she insisted.

And I was glad she did. Even if I haven't had many places to wear it to.

It's a little creased, but nothing that a few minutes with an iron won't fix. I hang it back up for the moment and move on to my other preparations. Date or just dinner, this is special; Jim suggested that we do something different to celebrate the end of Sammie's persecution against me. _The triumph of Goth over evil_, Jim had said slyly, and I would have smacked him if I hadn't been laughing so hard.

So I find a pair of sheer stockings that haven't been snagged, and pull a black lace slip from my work closet to go under the dress since my other one is in the wash; I hover between a braid and a French twist for my hair, but finally decide the elegance of the twist suits the dress better. Fastening the clip, I have to chuckle a little at the contrast; I'll spend a good hour on getting ready, while Jim, being male, will probably pull on a clean shirt and find a tie five minutes before walking out the door.

And then again, it's Jim. Ten minutes, perhaps, to shave. I've seen him casual, but never sloppy.

I put on my makeup as the iron is heating, and press the creases out of my dress, then slip it over my head and shiver a little as the still-warm fabric heats my skin. I turn to look in the mirror, and I have to smile.

It still fits. Definitely.

The woman in the reflection is far more demure than my professional persona, but by no means devoid of sensuality. Her eyes are big and dark, her legs long beneath the knee-brushing skirt; her shoulders glow a little against the band encircling her neck. My smile turns into a grin as I slip my feet into the low-heeled sandals I'd chosen earlier--wearing stilettos at work tends to make me favor gentler shoes outside my Dominion--and I dig out a pair of hoop earrings and a couple of silver bangle bracelets.

Yet there's something missing. I push the earrings into place and think for a moment. The dress is magnificent, but it needs something else, some final touch.

And then it hits me. Of course. The one accessory that might have been made to complement this outfit. It's to hand--I never leave it at work--and I pull it out and wrap it around me. Black and lavender silk, deeply fringed, rich and beautiful. Perfect.

The doorbell rings.

**BRASS**

A homicide detective sees it all, eventually, even in a place like Vegas. I've encountered a head without a body, a dead woman on an awning, and a husband-and-wife serial killer team; I've dealt with homicidal maniacs, corruption in the justice system, and CSIs hyped on adrenaline. I can't say that there's nothing left that surprises me, but it takes a lot to unnerve me these days.

I guess this is a lot, then.

I stand on Heather's porch--a seasoned law enforcement professional with thirty-plus years of duty under my belt--and I'm afraid to ring that doorbell. It's ridiculous, it's downright funny--I'd be laughing my ass off if it were anybody else--but it's still true. I'm nervous.

My tie's a touch too snug, and I reach up to loosen it. It was a Christmas present from Warrick, who said he was saving me from the terminal tackiness of clip-on ties and himself from the uncoolness of hanging out with someone who wore them, and for a second I'm back in that memory, both of us pretending that the coolness level was the only thing involved in the gift. And then I'm here again, and I grumble at myself and reach out to press the button.

Waiting for the door to open, I glance around. The new hummingbird feeder is half-empty, and the late afternoon light is slanting in under the porch roof. Given where we're going, I asked if we could switch to meeting Friday evening; some parts of Vegas are open twenty-four-seven, but not all of 'em.

The lock clicks open just as I turn back, and the hello on my lips disappears as I take in the sight in front of me. She looks _stunning_. Hell, she always looks great, even in jeans and a T-shirt wrinkled from a nap, but this is just amazing. A light purple dress that leaves her shoulders all bare and shows off her legs, her hair pulled up so that her neck looks a mile long, and the shawl I gave her for her birthday draped over her arms. This isn't the cool queen of the Dominion. This is somebody warmer, somebody it would be easy to get to know.

Her lips are curving, and I give myself a shake. _Say something, dumbass._ "Heather...you look terrific."

Her eyes drop, and it makes her look innocent and sexy at the same time. "So do you."

It's just my black suit, the one I wear to court, and a blue shirt, but I'm not going to argue. "Ready to go?"

"Absolutely." I step back to give her room to come out, and she locks the door, and on impulse I offer her my arm.

Her smile gets wider, and she loops her arm through mine. "How gallant of you, Captain Brass," she teases.

"My pleasure, Lady Heather." I wink at her, and she laughs, and I escort her down her front steps to my car. The titles aren't formal anymore--now they're a joke. It's a good thing.

Lake Mead's a bit of a drive, but we fill the time chatting about simple things--movies, local politics, the best place to buy ground beef. The sunset's turning the water red when we get there, and the parking lot's almost full. Gil turned me on to this place a while back; he comes for the calamari, but I come for the lamb.

I park the car and get out, going around to open Heather's door for her. She smiles up at me, putting her hand in the one I hold out, and it makes me feel like one of those old-time movie gallants. She straightens gracefully, and I give into impulse and lean down for a kiss.

I only mean to brush my mouth over hers, but after an instant she rocks into me and it turns into a real one--not long, but warm and delicious all the same. The feel of her fingers on my cheek is great, and I don't want to pull away, but I'm not really into...what does Nick call 'em? PDAs...and any more and that's exactly what this'll turn into.

Her face is pink when I straighten, and I'm willing to bet mine is too. "That was nice," I manage, and she smiles again.

"More than. Jim, if I forget to tell you later--I had a lovely time tonight."

I have to laugh.

Heather takes my arm again as we head in. We're both a touch overdressed for the place, but I don't mind--it makes it feel like more of an occasion. And having such a lovely lady by my side is a definite ego boost, let me tell you.

The maitre d' blinks once when he spots us; I figure it's because I usually turn up alone, and definitely not in a suit and tie. But a good maitre d' is like a cop in one way--he's seen it all, and nothing surprises him. He escorts us out to the table I reserved on the verandah, and gives Heather a little bow as I pull out her chair, and then vanishes.

I take my own seat, and then it hits me. "He's one of your clients, isn't he?"

Heather purses her lips ruefully. "I should have realized you'd catch that, Jim. Meeting a client outside of my Domain can be a little awkward."

And discretion is a keystone of her business. "I know nothing," I assure her, reaching for the menu, and her smile makes my stomach warm a little. "Have you been here before?"

She shakes her head. "Not for several years. I imagine the menu has changed. What do you recommend?"

**HEATHER**

Poor Harry. I could see him wavering between the reflex of obedience and the reality of his position, and made sure to give him no signals. My Dominion is a place of emotion, of powerful fantasy, of visceral reactions; it can be difficult for some clients to partition it off from the rest of their lives, particularly if they are surprised. But Harry did quite well, recalling after only a second that we were in his world, not mine. The bow was habit, yes, but not out of place.

The view from our table is stunning. The lake shimmers below like an otherworldly mirror, and the air is sweet and cooling. As the light fades, candles are lit around the verandah, surrounding us and the other diners in flickering warm light. I glance over the menu; the lamb that Jim has recommended does sound tempting, but I'm really leaning more towards seafood tonight. It takes me a while to make up my mind, and when I close the folder, Jim has one arm propped on the table, his chin in his palm and two fingers against his cheek, and he's just watching me. His eyes are narrowed, but they gleam warm, and as my gaze meets his the corners of his mouth curl up a little.

"What?" I ask, a little bemused by his intensity. He shakes his head, letting his arm drop and leaning back in his chair.

"Nothing. I can't enjoy the sight of a pretty woman?"

His voice is teasing, and I wrinkle my nose at him, deliberately letting my eyes fall to his chest and travel slowly back up to his now-raised brows.

"Turnabout is fair play," I say, answering the unvoiced question, and enjoying the sight of the flush that creeps up his ears.

The waiter arrives before he can retort. The tall young man is no one I know, and in fact is probably too young to step inside my Dominion, but he is polite and expert. I order the shrimp fettuccini--an indulgence--and a glass of Chardonnay; Jim asks for his favored lamb and also limits himself to a single glass of Pinot Noir. His gaze follows the waiter as the boy walks away, and I take a sip from my water glass. "Do you know him?"

Jim looks back to me. "Not personally, but I remember him from a case a couple of years back. We had to question a high school softball team, and he played...outfield, I think."

I shake my head, amazed and a little amused that Jim can remember so much about someone he met in passing. As far as I could tell, the young man hadn't recognized him at all. "Does that happen to you often? Running into people you meet through work?"

Jim takes a roll from the bread basket and splits it open, then reaches for the butter. "Not as much as you might think. They say Vegas is a small town, but it's pretty crowded. You get to know some folks--casino owners, for instance--but most of these fine, upstanding citizens don't even know I exist." His voice is a little dry, but I know him well enough to understand what he's not saying. They don't know him because nothing so dire in their lives has happened to require the attention of a homicide detective. And he prefers it that way.

Absently, he offers me half the roll, his expression going sly. "It does happen from time to time, though. For instance, I was in the grocery store one morning and ran into this really hot chick--ex-murder suspect--"

This man! I flutter my lashes at him, grinning, and take the bread. "Ooh, let me guess. You rescue her from a fate worse than death?"

We laugh together, and in the middle of it I realize just what is happening here.

I'm falling in love with Jim Brass.

On one level the fact surprises me no end; on another, it's almost expected. Jim's hardly the man of my long-ago dreams, but I'm no longer the woman who dreamed them. And this man is someone with whom I laugh and talk and flirt, someone who makes me feel both an equal and protected at the same time. I'm closer to him than to almost anyone else in my life, and the connection happened so naturally that I scarcely noticed.

It scares me a little. Of course. Jim likes me, that's obvious, and he has an equally obvious appreciation for my body, but that doesn't necessarily add up to anything more. And while I stopped expecting happily-ever-after decades ago, love is a vulnerability I'm not entirely sure I'm prepared for, especially if it's one-sided.

I set the revelation aside. Now is not the time to think about it. Now is the time to enjoy the company of a wonderful friend.

We chat until our salads arrive, teasing each other a little, talking about coincidences. A three-quarters moon spills its light onto the lake, and I take a moment to appreciate the sight of it. I may spend my nights awake, but I don't see much of the moon.

"So what's the weirdest coincidence you've ever run into?" Jim asks, picking through his salad to remove the croutons.

I think a moment around a mouthful of arugula, then swallow. "Oh, it has to be my aunt. She was in the Peace Corps when it first started, in Korea, and she came home the long way--traveling back through Asia and Europe." I smile, remembering her telling me this story. "She was traveling with a friend who got sick, so she ended up going on alone. So she was in Rome, and she went into a restaurant for lunch...a young American woman in a strange city...and ran into her cousin from Minnesota."

Jim chuckles. "Yeah, that one's pretty hard to top."

**BRASS**

It's been longer than I really want to remember since I've had such a great time. Not in general, but eating out with someone. Sure, I go off for breakfast with the CSI crew sometimes, but that's hardly a special occasion, especially if Sanders comes along; he always tries to start a food fight. Last time I got home before I realized there was a French fry in my breast pocket.

No, this is special. Heather and I have been sharing meals for months now, and it seems kind of silly to think of a fifty-something guy actually going on a _date_--it's so adolescent, you know? But that's what this feels like.

The main course arrives, and I get the treat of watching Heather eating noodles. Man, I don't know how women do it. I always end up spilling something. But she twirls her fork in the pasta and doesn't lose a drop of sauce, and I'm distracted from my grilled lamb when she licks her lips.

"Want a bite?" she asks, spearing a shrimp. "It's quite good."

I've never had the fettuccini. "Sure."

She leans over the table, holding out the fork, and I meet her halfway. She slips the food into my mouth and our eyes meet, and despite the cliché of the move, I almost get lost in her eyes. With some women, it might be something they do for effect, but Heather seems as surprised as me, and it takes an effort to look down. I sit back and swallow. "You're right, it is good."

She's looking at her plate, and I can see the faintest bit of pink on her cheeks. "When did you discover this place?"

I slice off a bite of lamb. "I didn't--a friend told me about it." It's not as full of tourists as it might be, since it's not on one of the popular beaches; it's really a locals' hangout. Spearing the lamb, I lean forward again. "Turnabout," I remind her, daring her as her eyes widen a little.

She takes me up on it, and to tell the truth I didn't expect anything less. Her lips close over the fork and I pull it back slowly, and this time the moment is a whole lot more charged. But we both let it go again, and she sits back, her brows going up. "I see why you keep coming back."

We take our time over the food; it really is outstanding, and deserves the attention. Eventually, though, Heather excuses herself, telling me she'll be a couple of minutes since she has to check her blood sugar level. I watch her cross the verandah, the fringe on her shawl swaying as she walks, and let a sigh out. It feels good.

I butter another roll, thinking about everything and nothing, not really paying too much attention to the low hum and movement around me, but then a couple passes by a few tables away, and something about the way they move is familiar. Both tall, but one is graceful and the other is--bowlegged.

It's like he feels my gaze. Grissom glances over his shoulder and sees me, but he doesn't look surprised. He touches Sara's shoulder and says something, and she looks up at him briefly with a nod, and then keeps going into the restaurant as he turns back towards me.

"Gil," I say easily as he pulls up next to our table. He looks down at me somberly, and I wave towards Heather's chair, but he shakes his head.

"Catherine told me, but I have to admit I didn't believe her."

I roll my eyes, a little annoyed at Cath, but not very surprised. There's no real reason to hide Heather's and my...relationship, whatever...but neither of us is really the kind to tell everyone about it either. "What? You're not the only guy who can date a gorgeous younger woman."

As the words fall out of my mouth I realize that dating is exactly what we're doing tonight, but before I can figure that out, Grissom snorts. "I'm not even going to touch that one." He grins a little, and I cut him off before he can say anything.

"No jokes about inadequacy."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He cocks his head. "Heather's special," he says seriously, and while I know nothing really happened between those two, I have to wonder what might have happened. "Take good care of her, Jim."

For somebody who lives with his head in a microscope, he's damned perceptive. "I will," I answer, and he nods and walks away.

I shake my head. Another coincidence to add to the list.

Heather comes back just in time for an offer of coffee and dessert, but we both decide to pass. The moon's setting as we leave the restaurant, Heather's hand tucked into the crook of my arm. As we reach the car she lets go, but forget impulse this time--I slide my arms around her deliberately, and wow! there's nothing but bare skin in back under that shawl. Warm, soft, bare skin.

Heather makes a little purring noise and her mouth lands on mine, hot and sweet. Her fingers are curling around my ears, and I can feel the lining of her shawl against the backs of my hands, but I'm really more interested in the velvety feel of her back under my fingertips. Her tongue's teasing mine, and I move one hand up to the nape of her neck and let the other make little circles, exploring. She tastes like the wine she had at dinner and her own rich flavor, and it takes a real effort to remember we're in a public place. There was nobody else in the parking lot when we came out, but sooner or later there will be.

Heather's hands are on the back of my neck now, and she's playing with the short hair there and making me shiver. I flatten my palms over the wings of her shoulderblades and pull away a bit, trying to catch my breath. Heather's eyes are big and dark, and she's got that tiny wicked smile that tells me she's definitely enjoying herself.

"You're amazing," I tell her, and have to clear my throat a little. "But I'm not sure--"

"--That this is the place for this?" she finishes, and nods. "You're right."

It takes an effort to let her go, and she smoothes down her shawl while I unlock the car door for her.

**HEATHER**

We don't talk on the drive back. It's not an uncomfortable silence, exactly; we're easy with each other, we don't have to talk to be companionable. But there's a newer element in the mix, and one I definitely recognize. I work with it almost every night. I keep stealing slow, pleasurable glances at Jim's profile, the light waxing and waning as we pass under streetlights; sometimes I feel his eyes on me, and they warm me.

There's one question hovering at the front of my thoughts, and I consider it carefully. Do I ask him in when we reach my home, and acknowledge all that implies? Jim is above all a gentleman; he would never pressure me. But I know quite well that he feels the same burn that I do, and I suspect that if I do ask him, his answer will be yes.

However, before I can decide if it's really a good idea or if it's moving too fast, his cellphone rings. Jim grunts and pulls it off his belt with the ease of long practice, his gaze never leaving the highway. Flipping it open, he speaks one terse word. "Brass."

The half of the conversation that I can hear is opaque, consisting mostly of affirmative noises and a couple of one-word questions. But I watch his face, and see it shift from that of my friend, off for the evening, to the professional.

Before long, he shuts the phone and slips it back into its holster. His mouth is grim. "Major shoot-out at the Royale," he says flatly. "So much for my night off."

"Duty calls," I comment lightly.

His gaze slides towards me for a second, brows lifting, before he looks back to the road. "You're not pissed?" he asks, and while his tone is joking, there's seriousness beneath it. It makes me wonder if his ex-wife expected a policeman's work to stay confined to an eight-hour shift.

"I'm sorry to lose your company," I tell him honestly. "But no, I'm not upset."

He blows out his breath and mutters something I don't quite catch, then flicks on the turn signal for the exit for my neighborhood. "Good, 'cause I am."

That makes me chuckle, and his mouth turns up reluctantly. "At least you didn't get called away in the middle of dinner," I point out, and he snorts.

He pulls up into my driveway and rounds the car to open my door, but his stride is brisk, and I can see that half his mind is already on the crime scene that awaits him. "It's my turn to make dinner next week," he says as he escorts me onto the porch. "Any requests?"

We've been having fun with variety, but for some reason I'm remembering the start of all this. "How about spaghetti?" I ask, unlocking my door.

His smile is full-blown this time. "You got it," he says. "Heather--"

I look up at him. He's got one arm braced against the doorframe, and while he's not all that much taller than me, somehow he seems to loom for a moment, all broad shoulders and male strength. Then his hand is cupping my neck and he's covering my lips with his in a slow, deep kiss that seems laden with promise. I grab hold of his lapel, resisting the urge to just snuggle into him, and give as good as I get.

When we move apart, his eyes are dark and regretful. His hand slips around and he draws one strong finger gently down the slope of my nose. "I'll see you soon," he says, his tone gravelly, and then he's striding down the steps two at a time.

I want to watch him go, but I know he won't leave until my door is safely closed, so I slip inside and lock it behind me. By the time I lift the curtain at the window Jim's already backed out of the driveway, but his headlights flick off, then on again as he shifts back into first gear, and I know it's a farewell.

**See Chapter 9**


	9. 9

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Chapter 9  
**

**HEATHER **

I pull up in front of Jim's house with my mouth watering. Asking for a repeat of his spaghetti was an impulse, but now all week I've been remembering it--the mixing of flavors, the spice of the sausage and the richness of the wine, the tang of the oregano and the sweetness of the tomatoes. _It's an ongoing experiment,_ he'd said, and I don't expect an exact copy, but I'm anxious to taste his particular brand of marinara creativity again.

And to taste him. We took another step forward in our relationship last week, and I remember the shape of his mouth with as much pleasure as I do the first time we ate together.

I shut the car door and open the one just behind it, pulling out the pizza pan I've brought along. I volunteered to bring dessert this time, one of my favorites. Glazed slices of kiwi, strawberry, orange, and starfruit make a colorful mosaic on top of a base of meringue. It's light, and will complement Jim's meal perfectly.

By the time I reach his front walk he's standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, regarding me with that odd soft-eyed smirk that tells me he's glad to see me. I smile back, pleasure crinkling my spine at the sight of him, and as he steps back to let me pass I lean up and kiss him briefly. He gives a small grunt of pleasure and follows me inside. "Nice to see you too."

I wink at him, making it cheeky. "Are you complaining?"

He snorts. "No way." Pulling the pan from my hands and setting it down on the coffee table, he surprises me by pulling me into his arms and dipping me back in an exaggerated version of the classic movie clinch. I squeal, and he kisses me, both of us laughing a little. I smooth my hair as he lets me go.

"It smells marvelous in here," I note, picking up the pan again, and Jim waves me on towards the kitchen. "More in an onion mood this week?"

"Vidalia," he says, removing the lid from a simmering pot and stirring it, then holding out the wooden spoon. I put the pan on the counter and lean forward for a taste, and oh, it's good--sweet and savory, not as robust as last time but smoother.

"Wow," I say inelegantly, but it makes him laugh, and he reaches out one blunt finger and wipes a drop of sauce from the corner of my lips, popping it into his own mouth in an automatic move. Then our eyes catch, and a frisson of awareness passes between us. For a moment we simply watch each other, attraction filling the small space between our bodies.  
And then, by mutual, silent agreement, we let it go and turn away. There's no need to rush.

The table's already set, and Jim's set out candles, which he lights as I pour the wine he's left breathing on the counter. The setting is elegant, and I find myself glad that I chose a blouse this morning instead of a t-shirt. Jim's wearing jeans again, but they go well with the short-sleeved button-down shirt; the crisp whiteness of the cotton sets off his eyes.

He goes back to dish up the pasta, and I slip off my shoes as the phone rings. "Could you grab that for me, Heather?" he calls, and I can see through the doorway that his hands are full, so I pick up the receiver in the living room.

"Hello?"

"James? Is James there?"

Every nerve I have goes on alert. Not because the voice is female and cultured, not because I've never heard anyone refer to him as "James" or even thought of doing so myself, but because urgency runs under those four words. "One moment, please."

Four strides takes me into the kitchen with the handset, and I pass it to Jim before he can pick up a second plate. He takes it, his brows drawing together, and I realize that my face must show something.

"This is Jim Brass," he says, and pauses. "Hello, Elaine."

I'm about to back away, to give him privacy, but before I can look away I see his eyes widen, and my stomach twists at the expression that flickers over his face. It's there and gone again as his face settles into blankness, but I recognize it.

Pain.

Scooping up the full plate, I carry it out to the table, though something tells me we probably won't be enjoying this meal. Setting it down, I hesitate a moment, not sure whether to return or simply stay out of the way, but then I hear the click of the handset being placed on the counter, and I go back.

I have to swallow hard. Jim's still standing where I left him, but his hands are braced on the counter and his head is bowed, and every line of him shows...defeat. This is not the simple weariness and hurt I saw before when he was attacked at a crime scene; this is a deeper blow, something deadly serious. "Jim?" I ask, half-whispering.

His head comes up slowly, and I realize with a pang that his eyes are glittering with tears, though none have fallen yet. "It's Ellie," he says hoarsely.

**BRASS**

I hate planes. I'm not paranoid about flying, but it seems to me that every time I get on a plane it's because something bad has happened. The last time I was on a plane was for my mom's funeral; the time before that was flying out to Vegas, and while it was for a job interview, I wasn't looking for a new job because I was bored with the old one, if you get what I mean.

The plane's half-empty, and I'm grateful. It's not that I can't keep my face straight, but everything hurts right now, and I don't need the extra pressure of a crush of people. I keep remembering Elaine's voice on the phone, sobbing between words--_It's Ellie, James. She's been in an accident. _

Part of me wanted to ask why she was crying so hard. She never paid much attention to her granddaughter--too busy with her bridge club and her garden--but I didn't. I just listened, even though I wanted to toss the phone across the room.

Y'know, in a sense I've been expecting this for years. Ellie always wanted to do her own thing, but the older she got, the more that seemed to mean walking on the wild side. For a while she'd do anything to piss me off, which is normal for a teenager I guess, but it never stopped. The last time I saw her, she'd been picked up for smuggling drugs, and though there wasn't enough evidence to hold her, there was no doubt in my mind that she was guilty as hell. We had our usual fight, and for a minute I thought I'd finally got through to her, that maybe we could just start over.

I think, for a second, she thought it too.

But she walked away, like she always did, and I went home, to hear her voice around corners. Like I always do.

I rub my eyes. They're all gritty and stinging; the air up here dries 'em out. The captain comes on to say we're descending, and I look down to fasten my seatbelt, but it's already fastened. I've been like that ever since I got the news--distracted.

Bless Heather. I didn't have to explain much. She just kind of took over, telling me to go pack, and driving me to the airport. Lucky for me there was a flight that had space, even if I had to pay through the nose for it.

I look out the window, seeing the green patches that Vegas doesn't have, remembering even before we land how humid Jersey can be. The last time I came back it was a shock, coming from desert to a snowstorm.

This time it'll be a funeral again. But this time...oh, damn...this time it won't be my mother in the casket. It'll be my daughter.

I catch a cab outside the terminal, then sit for a second in the back, wondering where to go. I sure as hell won't be welcome at Karen's place. Finally I give the cabbie the name of the hospital, more because I can't think of anything else to do.

It isn't till we get there and I walk into the smell of antiseptic that I realize I'm halfway through my sleep time, and maybe that's why my head hurts so bad. There's a fist of pain right behind my eyes, and the reek doesn't help any.

I've been here before--not for years, but I know the place. Never been to the morgue, though--when detectives need to see bodies they're usually on the city slabs, not in the hospital. But hell, all I have to do is follow the signs.

I push through the doors. The place isn't as nice as Doc Robbins'; it's battered and--not exactly grubby, but not as polished. There's nobody there but a scrawny diener. "I'm here to see Ellie Br--"

And I choke a little. I don't know if she's still using my last name, or if she went back to Fiorelli, which was her first stepfather's name.

I don't even _know._

But the kid's face shows recognition. "She's already been identified," he says uncertainly.

I pull out my badge. "I'm her father," I snap, flashing the ID at him, betting that the combination of authority and relationship will be enough, and I win my bet. He shuffles over to the wall of drawers and pulls one out.

She's still got a sheet over her, and for that I'm grateful. The diener folds it back carefully to her neck, and there she is.

My baby girl.

For a minute all I can think is that they got it wrong somehow. This can't be her. My beautiful sprite of a daughter is still out there somewhere, laughing maybe, all blonde hair and energy.

But it's true. She's still beautiful under the bruising, I can see that. Her face is calm, though I don't know if the coroner put it that way for identification, and the lines of her face are still pure, even though no living skin has that shade of gray. Her hair's been smoothed down, but it's streaked with blood here and there.

My eyes drift lower, down her long neck, and I see a piece of black thread peeking out from under the sheet. _Huh?_

I reach out and pull the sheet down further. The kid twitches, but he's too slow to stop me. Something in the back of my mind whimpers at the sight of the coarsely stitched Y-incision, but most of me is in cop mode, wondering why in hell they did an autopsy when it was her head that got hit. "What's this?" I demand.

The diener blinks. "She was an organ donor," he says weakly.

He keeps talking, but my ears are buzzing and I don't hear him. _Oh, Ellie. Oh. _

_You were still you. _

**HEATHER **

I let Jim off in the dropoff lane of the airport, watching him hurry inside with his bag slung over his shoulder, and then I just sit, ignoring the security guy who's giving me a fishy look. I just need a minute. To mourn.

It's a parent's worst, most horrifying nightmare. The loss of a child. No matter that Jim was estranged from his daughter--she was still his daughter, and always would be. I know there are parents who don't deserve the name, but Jim wasn't one of them. He'd barely spoken of Ellie, but I knew he loved her.

Finally I put the car in gear. I need to go back to Jim's place and clean things up a little--we left dinner just sitting, hardly taking the time to blow out the candles and shut off the stove.

The house is dark and silent. I've never been in it when Jim hasn't been there, and the curtains are still drawn, so the sun can't reach inside.

I stop in the living room, turning on a light, and drift over to look at the small framed picture on the wall. It's a child's drawing, three stick people and a house behind them, and it's signed "Ellie" in shaky capitals. The paper is yellow with age.

Jim never said much about her. He was always interested when I talked about Zoë, but his own daughter was pretty much off-limits for discussion. This ancient drawing is almost all I know about who she is.

Was.

I swallow hard and turn towards the kitchen. My heart is aching for Jim. He looked so lost, even as he packed a bag with swift efficiency.

The plate of pasta has cooled to a gelid mess, and the sauce is cold too, but with a dreary sense of responsibility I put the filled plate in the microwave. I have to eat something--I'm already pushing my luck. While it heats I put the rest of the sauce into the freezer and the noodles into a container; I'll take them home with me, since they probably won't keep until Jim gets back and it would be a pity to waste them. The dessert can go to work. Plenty of my employees have a sweet tooth.

The sauce really is excellent. But I just don't have the heart to enjoy it.

**BRASS**

The motel's seen better days, but I don't want to spend money on one that's still in its better days; the last-minute plane flight's taken a big enough bite out of my budget as it is. I drop the key on the desk and sling my bag on the bed, deliberately ignoring what the CSIs always say about hotel linen. Right now all I want is sleep, because if I'm asleep I won't have to feel anything, at least for a while.

First things first, though. I pull out my cell and punch up Elaine's number.

She's not bawling this time, which is a relief. I tell her I'm in town, and she doesn't invite me for dinner--no surprise there. But with the pleasantries out of the way I have to ask. "What...what the hell happened?"

Her voice gets all thick again, but mine's not exactly steady either. "I'm not really sure...she got into some kind of argument outside a club. The policeman tried to explain, but Karen was...and I couldn't..."

I can fill in the blanks. Karen went into hysterics, and Elaine had her hands full dealing with her daughter. I let a sigh out, and leave it for now. "All right. Tell me what's going on."

When I hang up I have the schedule. Funeral in three days, cremation the next day. And goodness only knows what in the meantime, trying to straighten things out.

One thing this crappy little place does have is a minibar. I give it a long look. I'm really tempted to let whatever excuse for liquor that thing contains help me to sleep, but I finally decide not. I'm no alcoholic, but as I told Sara not too long ago, it's way too easy to slip into numbing the edges on a regular basis. I just strip down and peel back the sheets, and fall onto the creaky mattress.

And hope I don't dream.

xxxxxxxxx

I've never been one of those people they talk about in books, who wakes up not knowing where they are. I don't know if it's a side effect of being a cop or what, but as soon as I'm even slightly conscious, I remember.

Remembering is hell, this morning.

I did dream, though no nightmares, and I kept waking up. So my head doesn't feel much better than it did yesterday. I roll over--the sheets smell clean, at least--and try to face the fact that my little girl's dead. Shot in the head in what my ex-mother-in-law calls an "accident," and while that sounds pretty fishy I wouldn't put it past Ellie.

I just want to go back to sleep, and not wake up again.

But there's no getting out of this. I pry myself out of the bed and take a shower--lukewarm's the best the pipes can do--and go out in search of coffee. There's no way I'm facing Karen without some coffee.

There's a little diner about five blocks away from my motel, and while it's been years since I've been in it, it used to serve pretty good coffee. I take a seat at the counter and turn down the offer of breakfast; I'm halfway down my first cup when a voice behind me reminds me of something I shouldn't have forgotten--I wasn't the only cop who liked this place.

"Well, if it isn't Officer Snitch."

Sergeant Tregard slips onto the stool next to mine and leans back against the counter. It's been years since I've seen him, too, but I wouldn't expect him to forget me. I keep my eyes front and take another sip; I never had a beef with Tregard himself, but finger one dirty cop and they all close ranks on you, and I don't want a fight. "Sergeant," I acknowledge.

"Heard you ran off to Las Vegas," he says, and his tone isn't as hostile as I expected, though it sure as hell ain't friendly.

"Yep." I still don't look at him. "Gotta love the night shift."

He snorts. "So what brings you back to Jersey?"

All of a sudden I'm out of patience. I turn my head and look him in the eye. "My daughter died yesterday."

He blinks, and the hardness falls off his face. I hold his stare, and he blinks again and looks down. "Oh," he says finally. "Uh--sorry."

I nod once, and after a second or two he slides off the stool and goes away, and that's all I care about.

xxxxxxxxx

Elaine's place looks just like it always has--lawn manicured within an inch of its life, and a bunch of those cutesy animal statues scattered here and there. The flowers are nice, though. I knock on the door, suddenly wishing I were wearing my suit jacket instead of a polo shirt. Everyday armor.

But the door opens and there's Elaine, tall and skinny and elegant. She's aged since the last time I saw her, and it shows, even though her hair's still perfect and she's made up within an inch of her life. She looks at me with the expression she's always reserved for me--politeness, and a little bewilderment, like she can't understand what an ordinary cop is doing in her daughter's life. "James," she says, and stands aside so I can come in.

"Hello, Elaine," I answer, and slide past. The inside of the little house is as perfect as the outside--I get the feeling that any self-respecting dustbunny would run for its life rather than live here. "Where's Karen?"

She closes the door. "In the den. James--be kind to her, she's absolutely devastated--"

I bite my tongue, and nod. I'll give Karen this--she tried to be a good mom to Ellie even if she did paint me black the second I walked out of her life.

I walk down the hall towards the den, and Elaine vanishes into the kitchen. The walls here are lined with photographs, and I'm careful not to look at some of 'em--I need to keep control right now, not break down staring at a picture of my little girl. One of them catches my eye though. It's not my daughter; it's my ex-wife, back before things got bad. Back when we were happy. She's smiling, a little saucy; long hair the same blonde as Ellie's, but her build curvy and short. Just the right height for my arm around her shoulders--

I follow the smell of cigarettes into the den. Karen's slumped in one of the big armchairs left over from her daddy's time, and the half-full ashtray on the desk nearby tells me she's probably been smoking from the minute she got up this morning. The difference between Karen now and Karen then is pathetic; her hair's bleached and short, the curves have been chased away by some diet, and she's dressed like somebody at least twenty years younger. Her face looks like she's ten years older than she is, though I figure that at least part of that's due to grief. Hell, it's not like I look all that great today either.

It occurs to me that I really don't know what to say, but it turns out I don't have to say anything. Karen's head rolls around until she sees me, and her eyes go narrow. "What are you doing here?"

I don't want to fight, I never do, but some things are just automatic. "What do you think? I just dropped in for a flying visit?"

She snorts, and crushes out the cigarette she's holding. "Typical. You show up when it's too late."

The ache in my head is spreading down my neck now. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Just in time for the funeral," she sneers. "You can play the grief-stricken father all you want, but everyone there'll know you left her years ago."

"I didn't leave her, she left me," I retort, my hands clenching into fists. "Just because you--"

"You were never there!" Karen screams, pushing out of the chair. "If I'd stayed with you Ellie would have grown up without a father!"

"Yeah, and she had three instead, and hated all of 'em!" Now I'm yelling too. "I tried to be there for her, but you kept shoving me away--"

"So you run away to Vegas?" Her eyes are almost bulging, and I feel sick, and furious too. "If you weren't such a damned coward, you--"

"If I weren't such a damned coward I'd have told Ellie the truth years ago!"

I can't believe I said that. I didn't even know it. My throat closes up on any more words.

Karen's definitely not out of them. She opens her mouth again, but Elaine's voice cuts into our fight like ice.

"Karen! James! What are you _doing?_"

My ex stops mid-word, and I turn a little in the doorway, feeling even guiltier. Elaine's standing behind me, hands on her hips. "Your daughter's not even in her grave and you two are fighting! James, I told you not to upset her!"

I run one hand over my hair, and realize it's shaking a little. There's no point in arguing with Elaine. "Sorry." My voice is hoarse.

Karen slumps back into the chair. "Get out of here, Jim," she snarls. "Go back to Vegas."

Elaine sighs, and gestures towards the front door, and I head for it, suddenly wanting very badly to get out of the little house before I break one of those pictures or put my fist through a wall. "I'll see you at the funeral," I tell Elaine, letting her know that I'm not leaving the city just yet, but she just nods.

"That would probably be best."

I look at her for a second, wondering how many times Karen and I have gone through that scenario, and then something occurs to me. "Do you remember the name of the officer who..."

I can't quite finish the sentence, but Elaine bites her lip, and reaches over to the hall table for the business card there. She hands it to me and I put it into my pocket, and leave the little house behind.

It takes me almost half an hour of driving to calm down. I didn't think Karen could still push my buttons like that, but nothing about this is normal. I try a couple of the exercises that Heather taught me, the ones she uses when clients get on her nerves, even though I laughed at them when she described them.

Man, I miss her. I miss the smell of her, the press of her body against mine, the look in her eyes when I tease her. I want to call her, just to hear her voice as an antidote to Karen's screaming, but I don't. She's got enough to deal with without my griping.

And somehow, I want to keep her separate from all this. As long as she's back there in Vegas, I have something to go back to, even if I never tell her about this week.

When my grip on the wheel is a little less strangling, I fish out the card. I don't recognize the name, and it's a relief; maybe this Sgt. Raffelli won't resent me for what I had to do all those years ago.

xxxxxxxx

The park isn't big, but it has a pretty cool jungle gym; I used to bring Ellie here when she was little. I sit on the bench in the sunshine and just stare; there's a few kids playing on the swings, but I don't really see them. Instead I'm seeing Sgt. Raffelli's report, and hearing his voice telling me what went down. And at the same time, I'm seeing it play out in my mind.

Ellie and a couple of her friends, waiting to get into a club.

Three drunk guys deciding that her friend Sean is a good target.

Ellie getting in their faces when they wouldn't leave Sean alone.

The bouncer moving to break it up, but not fast enough.

The .22 one of the jerks is carrying as he presses it to Ellie's skull to shut her up.

The noise of the gun going off--not loud--and the look on his face when she falls.

The clink of the gun hitting the sidewalk when he dropped it in shock.

Damned fool's lucky it didn't go off again.

I can't breathe. It hurts too much.

_Ellie..._

I didn't know I could still cry.

**HEATHER **

It's been three days. I can't stop thinking about Jim.

It's not just worry--the oddest things remind me of him, like driving past the grocery store where we first met that rainy morning, or the scent of barbecued chicken that calls back the time he had to prove to me that he could grill as well as I can.

He hasn't called...yet...and while I keep having the impulse to call him, I haven't. Grief can be a lonely journey, and sometimes one has to go part of the way alone, or only with those who share the grief.

I just hope he knows I'm here if he wants to call.

Tonight I leave for work a little early. I'm restless this evening, and I might as well go to work as do housework--and nobody pays me to do housework.

The sunset's magnificent; for once there are clouds in the sky, and the heavy cumulus produce a medley of crimsons and pinks and gilded greys in the western sky. I keep stealing glances while waiting at stoplights, and then when a last beam of light strikes one small building in particular, I choose to take it as a sign.

I must be presenting an incongruous picture at best. I'm dressed for work, which tonight means a lacy blouse, a cameo on a ribbon, an artfully tattered skirt, and my stiletto boots, and I'm walking into one of the little Catholic churches that date back to the founding of the town. But there's no one there to stop me, even when I step inside; if it weren't for the flicker of candlelight and the faint hum of air conditioning units, the place would appear abandoned.

It's been a long time since I've been to a service; while Las Vegas does offer more services than many other cities, living the night life just doesn't make it convenient. Still, I automatically soften the tap of my heels against the stone floor. The sanctuary is a bit shabby; my guess is that its congregation is small. But it's a historical building, which has probably kept the developers at bay for the moment.

I pause at the last pew, looking around, absorbing the scents of wax and stone and incense. But somehow I don't want to advance up the aisle and sit, even for a moment. Instead, I move off to the side where a smaller area holds a statue of the Virgin Mary.

It's funny--people tend to think of her as meek and submissive, but I've never considered her so. After all, it must have taken tremendous courage for a teenage peasant girl to defy her family and her fiancé by informing them that she was pregnant--and that she'd been told so by an angel of God. Not to mention raising that child and his brothers, only to see her eldest son become reviled, worshiped, and wrongly executed.

No, Mary was a woman of strength. And she would understand the loss of a child.

I fish a coin from my handbag and slip it into the small box next to the rank of votives, then light one myself, thinking of Jim and the stricken look in his eyes. And the young woman whose drawing hangs on his living room wall.

_May you find peace. Both of you. _

**BRASS**

The funeral's absurd. I can't think of a better word for it. I stand on one side and watch the people coming in, with Elaine or Karen greeting them, Karen sniffling into a handkerchief every so often. Most of the mourners are old friends of those two, who watched Ellie growing up, or they're friends of Ellie's, teary young women clinging to each other.

The room's not very big, and it feels stuffy and cramped. The casket's open, and my eyes keep drifting back to it, getting one more glimpse of Ellie's face. She looks very beautiful, but not natural. In all her life she was never still for so long.

It all feels like it's taking place on the other side of a thick pane of glass. I take my seat next to Elaine--she insisted that we all sit together, which is a laugh--and listen to people talk about an Ellie I never knew.

I'm not sure they knew her either. They describe someone caring, smart, sweet--and she could be all those things, yeah. But none of them mention her spirit, her energy, her stubbornness, the fact that when she was little she would stomp her feet if she didn't get her way... They don't talk about how she could be reckless, or how she loved strawberries, or how she would stick up for the underdog even when it--

--Got her killed.

Elaine's nudging me with her elbow, and I blink, and realize that it's my turn to say something. I push to my feet and walk up to the podium; the carpet's so thick that my feet aren't making any sound. They're all watching me, except for Karen, who has her face buried in her handkerchief. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out, because there in the back is the one guy I really, really didn't want to see.

Ellie's biological father.

I always figured he didn't know, but I can tell by looking at him now that he does, though whether he always knew or Karen told him some time later I have no idea. It's too much, really, and for a second fury twists my gut and I just want to walk out and leave the whole fake scene behind. We're all fakers here--Elaine's faking mourning, and I'm faking parenthood, and everybody's talking about a girl who didn't exist, a sweet and perfect young woman to match the perfect, empty face in the coffin.

But I get it under control. Lady Heather, expert at control, would be proud, and I really wish she were here to sit with me instead of a woman who hates my guts and one who never liked me.

"I loved Ellie from the second I set eyes on her," I say, and my voice is rough at first. "I knew right then that my life was never going to be the same."

_Wide eyes open and a tiny fist wraps around my finger. _

"Being a father was the best thing that ever happened to me."

_Jars of baby food and piggyback rides and telling bedtime stories. The three of us going out for pizza, a family even if it was just temporary. _

"I know I wasn't the world's greatest dad, not by a long shot, but I did try."

_Those wide eyes full of tears as she watches me pack a suitcase. "Daddy, why are you going away?" _

"Ellie was her own person. She was a dreamer and a rebel. She...had a good heart."

_A fourteen-year-old with too much makeup and a skirt that's way too short. "What do you care who I go out with? You're never around anyway." _

"It's a parent's job to protect their child. But you can't protect them from everything."

_"Dad, it's way too late." _

"And sooner or later you have to let them go."

_He's hardly more than a kid himself, huddled in the cell. Guard says he was crying off and on all night. Raffelli says he'll plead no contest to involuntary manslaughter. _

_I can despise him, but I can't hate him. _

"Ellie..." I swallow. "Wherever you are, I'm proud of you."

xxxxxxxxxx

Potato salad. Three kinds. It almost makes me laugh, seeing the big bowls on Elaine's table. Ellie hated the stuff.

It's not as big a spread as at my mom's funeral, but she had a lot of friends, and there were cousins all over the place too. This time, people keep dropping by, and it seems like all of 'em have their hands full with something edible. Cookies, jello, a trayful of vegetables--somebody even brought some of those tiny little quiches. Elaine's been busy brewing pot after pot of coffee, between answering the door; the one time I tried to do it she nearly ran me down. She's in her element here, receiving guests, and while I can't say she's enjoying it, I know she likes to be in control of a situation.

Karen's sitting in the living room and letting people come to her. She keeps breaking down. Y'know, if this were one of those cheesy made-for-TV movies, we'd have some kind of reconciliation; I'd go over there and comfort her, and maybe we'd both cry for a while, and part friends. But the truth is I don't want to be anywhere near her. We'd only end up screaming at each other again.

So I hang out in the den, wishing I had a glass of Scotch instead of a cup of coffee. Elaine, bless her hostess instincts, brought me a plate of goodies and a napkin, but I'm the farthest thing from hungry.

Every so often someone wanders in, and we end up having a minute of awkward conversation. It's mostly older folks--not too many of Ellie's friends showed up--and it's a weird feeling, seeing people I knew years ago, but in this situation. It's not like most people took sides in Karen's and my divorce, but the fact that I didn't stick around kinda makes the issue moot.

In one of those pauses where nobody else is in here, I find myself thinking of Vegas. It's home now, even though I don't really think of it that way, and part of me really wants to get back there. Ridiculous damn climate and all. Back there are people I know and trust, people I can joke with, people who don't resent me for things I did or didn't do. People like 'Rick, and Grissom, and Heather.

I miss her. I keep thinking that if she were here it wouldn't hurt so bad. It would be nice to have somebody around who isn't involved, if you know what I mean. I close my eyes for a minute, imagining her sitting in the other chair, those big eyes all warm and serious the way they were when I told her what had happened. Listening.

But she's not here. And it's probably a good thing, really. She doesn't need to be stuck in my personal mess.

It's gotten quiet out there. I finally look at my watch, and it surprises me how much time has gone by. Looks like the party's over.

I push to my feet and stick my nose out the door. The hallway's empty, so I collect my plate and cup, and head back to the kitchen. I can hear Elaine and Karen talking in the living room, but no other voices. Pouring my cold coffee down the sink, I look around at the mess of crumbs and plates, and for a second I'm tempted to roll up my sleeves and start washing, just to have something to do.

"Go home, Jim."

The voice makes me look up. Karen's standing in the doorway, looking more tired than I feel, which is an achievement. But for once, she doesn't seem mad. "Go on, get out of here."

Her voice is just sad.

"Tomorrow--" I start, and she shakes her head.

"We'll see you then."

And that seems to be that. I nod, and walk towards her. She pushes off the doorframe and steps back so I can pass through.

Still short enough that I could put my arm around her shoulders. But I don't want to anymore.

xxxxxxxxxxx

I've seen cremations before. My dad, my grandfather. They never bothered me much.

This does.

The funeral was so surreal--it got to the point where nothing felt really real, and the beautiful face in the coffin was somebody I didn't know, or just a symbol--a stand-in for my daughter. Here and now, in this stark room, the coffin is already sealed shut, but I have this crazy urge to pop it open and pull her out, to stop the whole thing, just in case she's not dead. Because the fire in that furnace will make sure she is.

I know, I know, it's insane. But I can't help how I feel.

It's just the four of us--me, Karen, Elaine, and the guy running the show, I don't know what you call 'em. It's not like there's any ceremony attached to this, but he moves slowly just the same, and I guess it's a kind of respect. He must do this a dozen times a week, but it's not ordinary to the folks he does it for.

He kind of looks like what David the coroner might look like in twenty years. Solid and regular, but not stupid. He glances around at us, the two women huddled together, me standing off by myself, and then does something with the control panel. The big doors slide open, and my throat gets tight as the belt starts to move and the coffin lumbers towards the furnace.

I haven't seen flame like that since the last time I watched a house burn down. My hands are in my pockets, but I clench them into fists, trying to keep from saying anything. Ellie's dead--she's not awake in there. And she'd approve of this. Letting her ashes go on the wind seems much more appropriate than burying her body in a cemetery somewhere.

Except, I'll bet, they won't go free. I'd lay odds that Karen'll keep them, or Elaine will. Maybe in an urn on the mantel.

The coffin slides into the roar of flame, and the doors close over it. The weird sense of panic that gripped me since this began just--stops.

Karen's sobbing again, and Elaine has an arm around her, murmuring something I can't catch. Neither of them looks up as I turn and go out.

Seems like all I do is leave.

**See Chapter 10**


	10. 10

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.**

**ATTENTION: Rating has changed! This is now R rated.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Chapter 10  
**

**HEATHER**

I'm worried about Jim. Really worried. While I've managed to get through most of this week on autopilot, it's been an effort not to let my fears show, and even Pauline is aware of how distracted I've been. She's urged me to move my vacation schedule up, take some time off and I'm considering it—

But not until Jim comes back from New Jersey.

He called once, to ask me to put his garbage can at the curb on trash day; although he said all the right things I could hear the strain in his voice and didn't push. No definite return time yet.

Work is the best therapy for me right now, and if I seem particularly bitchy, the clients are actually grateful. Sometimes I'm glad my line of work allows me to channel my frustrations into win-win situations.

I've kept my cell phone with me at all times, something I don't normally do, and at home, Zoë's calls have been a comfort to me. It's odd to be on the other side of the questions, though, and I sense my daughter is delighted to get back her own after my years of inquisitiveness into HER love life. Zoë is sharp and compassionate and merciless at the tease, which is just what I need sometimes. She tells me I'm quite the priss, for a Dominatrix.

"Honestly mom, have you even gotten to third base with this honey of yours?"

"Zoë Mariah is that any sort of question to ask your mother?"

"So that means no, huh? Boy, there's slow and then there's SLOW, mom. You and Jim are on like, continental drift mode. Saving yourselves for Social Security?" she laughs to take the sting out of it. I feel myself wince a fraction, and wonder if maybe she's a little right.

"I practice what I preach, child of mine."

"Think maybe he's got trouble in the hydraulics department? He IS over fifty, right?"

I shake my head vigorously; if there's one thing I know from very prominent moments in the recent past, it's that Jim Brass is no candidate for Viagra. Just remembering a few of our more involved kisses is enough to make me shift my thighs and I growl into the phone when I realize my daughter can't see my emphatic denial.

"He's a tiny bit over fifty but he's just fine, physically, Zoë, and that's ALL I'm going to say about that."

"Okay, okay," I can hear her smile, and then her tone shifts to something more serious. "So—have you heard from him yet?"

"Briefly. I worry for him."

"If he's a cop then he's probably a much better visual and kinesthetic communicator, mom. Auditory would be a lesser process for him, and his verbal would be heavily influenced by direct presentation."

My Zoë, the brilliant young psychology major. She's not only got Jim pegged to a certain degree, she's managed to reassure me as well. I grin into the receiver.

"Did you just say he's not as good with phone calls as he is face to face?"

"Bingo. As a police officer he's going to cue on body language and expression as his primary source of information. Since he can't see you over the phone it's not as easy for him to pick up conversational cues, so he's not as comfortable as he would be in your physical presence. I bet he prefers to look at you when either of you speak."

I make a small affirmative sound; Jim is definitely a watcher, alert for things I take for granted. He stopped me from accidentally roasting a potholder once, just the sort of little thing that he catches and I don't. Zoë can hear my sigh and adds,

"Speaking of watching, Noah asked me to the movies, so I have to run, mom. But let me know when you hear from Jim, and let him know I'm thinking of him too, 'kay?"

We exchange 'love yous" and hang up. I wander restlessly from room to room, too tense to do anything productive, and in fact there's nothing left here to fill my time. My laundry is done; my dishes washed; even the yard has been mowed and trimmed. My glance falls on the house key sitting on the counter and I scoop it up determinedly.

I'm certain Jim's house could use some tidying.

xxxxxxxxx

The front door rattles, then creaks; I slide out of bed, alert but already feeling the rush of adrenaline charging through me. Jim is home. Only he would be coming in this late in the afternoon, fighting with the stiff locks before getting the door open. Quickly I pull on the first thing at hand; one of his button-down shirts. I fight down the disappointment that he didn't call, and pad my way out to the hall to hang back a moment in the doorway, suddenly aware of so many things in one rush of impressions.

Although it's only been six days he's thinner and slightly haggard, with a shadow of beard on his cheeks and under his nose. He's in slacks, shirt and windbreaker, all looking extremely wrinkled, and as he drops his bag by the front door I can practically hear his exhaustion.

Then he looks up and sees me. I feel it then, the hot jolt of surprise, the flicker of hope that dies away as he tries to smile.

"Heather . . ." he trails off, not exactly enthusiastic, peeling off his jacket. I try not to let that hurt; he's had a terrible week and probably a rough flight back. I don't need to make things harder on the man when what he needs is a hot shower and about ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. I start to turn towards the bathroom, but he strides over to me and catches my shoulders, looking into my face searchingly. I don't know what he expects to see, but I know what I'm looking at, and it hurts so much that I gasp at the depth of the pain in those bleak blue eyes.

I grab him, hugging him to me fiercely, as hard as I can, blinking back my own tears as I drink in the scent of him, the almighty wonderful FEEL of Jim right where he needs to be. His arms come up around me in a crushing bear hug, tight and hungry, locking me against him in a full body press of desperate gratitude.

"Jim, sweetheart," I choke, determined not to let him go until my body's had a good long cling to him. In one overwhelming moment I suddenly realize what this man means to me and fear washes through my body, chased by a greater sense of truth.

I've needed someone. A someone who needs me back.

The joy and terror of that epiphany makes me swoon a little, but Jim's grip is secure and real around me; his hot breath against my ear makes me shiver.

"God, babe, I missed you . . ." he whispers brokenly to me in a voice that makes the tears finally fall for both of us. Jim half stumbles against the wall of the hallway, never letting go of me and we're both shaking, hanging on to each other no less fiercely, but with a sudden sense of body heat. The friction of Jim's khakis and shirt rub against me, and I'm aware of how little I'm wearing but it's far too late to change anything now. His hands are sliding down, riding the curve of my bottom and cupping it; I fight to stop a little moan from escaping my lips at the feel of those big palms on me.

"Ohhhmmmmm . . ." I gasp.

God, suddenly I can't think as Jim's mouth presses to mine, drinking me in, the sweet flavor of his tongue filling my mouth. His tears blend with the ones on my cheeks as we kiss and kiss again, recklessly, breathing in gasps and surging together again in silky deep passion.

So good, it's been so long since this sort of wildness fired my Magyar blood. Jim is yielding a bit now, kissing his way along my jaw line as his hands tighten against my ass. I grind, I simply cannot stop myself, and in that sultry rub I suddenly realize that Jim Brass is . . .

Oh. God. Yes---

But now he's pulling away; the flare of guilt in his eyes as he tries to let me go, and I know it's remorse that divides the mind from the body, the living from the dead. Jim's heart wants my love, but his body wants my body, right here, right now. Death drives us to seek life, and I know from past experience that this urge to meld with someone is both emotional and biological. It's not quite how I ever envisioned our consummation, but in a way this is more intimate than any candlelit dinner Jim and I could ever have.

This loving need, sweet desire borne on wings of shared pain IS what we are all about.

So I grab his face, cup it, kiss him once again, my words muffled on his mouth as I tell him so.

"Need you, want you, Jim, please!" I plead, wrapping a leg around him and pushing myself against him. Jim sways, still torn between lust and loss, his eyes locked on mine. My jaw trembles; pride won't let me beg twice.

He nods, then takes my wrist, kissing it before he holds it in his fingers and leads me to the bedroom.

**BRASS**

God.

I'm taking Heather to bed.

My bed. I'm actually doing it, pulling open the shirt she's wearing, MY shirt, carefully, deliberately undressing her for the sole purpose of lying on her warm naked body and losing myself deep within her.

The moralist in me is hissing that this is utterly wrong, and only a real bastard would take advantage of a loving woman like Heather this way. The rest of my body is clamoring for him to shut up while we take in the sight of her in the faint blue twilight. She's lying there, sleek, lean; I'm finding it hard to breathe as I flick the shirt off her shoulders and look down on the rounded line of her neck, the shadowy hollows of her collarbones and Jesus! The proud swell of her breasts.

Utterly gorgeous.

I am not worthy, but since I'm already beyond redemption at this point I slide my hands around her waist and pull her to me just to feel that velvety bare skin, her heat seeping through my clothes, warming me. I didn't realize I was cold, that I've been cold a long time. Years. Heather molds to me, moaning a soft little needy sound that makes me throb, hard and I know damn well I'm not going to last; it's been too long and I need her too much. I kiss, lingering on my way over satiny skin across her shoulder, down over the intimate curve of her pretty throat. My hands can't get enough of Heather; I'm stroking, touching, memorizing the lush velvet of her hip, the hollows at the small of her spine as she reaches for my shirt buttons. The ones on the shirt I'm wearing, not her, not that she's wearing a shirt at the moment.

Ah hell. It's hard to figure out what's going on, but a lot of it is good, moving through great, right into incredible. The minute her hand rubs across my chest under my shirt I let go of the breath I've been holding, shuddering a little. Her hands on me do this, let me let go of all the pain and tension and anger and sorrow I've been carrying around in there for the past week. Lithe fingers rake through my fur, glide over a nipple and yeah, I feel that all right. No higher brain function available at the moment, leave a message . . .

More kisses, slow long involved kisses. Our bodies are kissing as much as any other part of us. Heather's soft and silky, with a mouth I keep coming back to, and a way of moaning a little that's making me shiver. I'm going beyond want and into the need zone now, especially when she manages to unbuckle my belt and tug on my fly. After some fumbling, which never happens in the movies but always hangs up people in real life, Heather glances down and makes this great sound, a sort of gasp and purr at the same time.

I'm so glad she likes it.

God knows it likes her, and if we're not careful here—ohhh.

In desperation, I guide her hand lower, tighten my grip around hers to hold back impending disaster and Heather understands; she waits, patiently until I swallow hard and loosen up, back under shaky control. One of the advantages of my age is that I have some practice with pacing and I know myself pretty well by now, but Heather's so warm and alive that I'm going out of my mind, close to the end of limits.

I roll on my side and slide a hand onto the flat tautness of her stomach, learning the contour of her muscles there. Definitely plan to do some kissing here. Move my hand lower; Heather's hips lift to meet my touch, and my fingertips slip into the softest silkiest fur I've ever touched. Thick, curly and dark, but oh so fine, like a baby rabbit; Heather moans, arching her head back as I nuzzle her neck and I feel her pulse thrumming. By now I'm so damn aroused I could explode, but I know she's close too; God as my witness I'm gonna make sure she gets over the finish line first.

Carefully I kiss her, and let my fingers stroke through that incredible fur of hers. Slowly, carefully I find that little spot, that lightly throbbing bud, gently ease my thumb and forefinger around it, then every so lightly rub them in opposite directions. Heather's slick and I'm breathing hard but keeping my touch soft, soft, soft. She looks at me, those green blue eyes smoky and wild, long lashes fluttering as I feel her body tense up, arching against my palm--I gotta close my eyes or I'll be all over her, and not in a good way.

**HEATHER**

Ohhhhhh! I, I, I can't quite breathe right yet. The rush is still pounding through me, drugging my senses, leaving me limp and dazed. I came. Jim touched me, touched me in some amazingly magic way and I just . . . came.

That doesn't happen to me. I'm not that way, despite all the posturing required for my job. My own sexuality has always been private, and fairly mild in the scheme of things. But I'm lying here completely enthralled by the sensual strokes of a man I adore, feeling languid and grateful and shy. Jim leans down, brushing his lips across one of my nipples, making me shiver all over. In a flash of chagrin I remember this is as much about his pleasure as mine, so I reach for him.

Jim's face is half in and out of the shadows, his eyes dark and mysterious in the dim light. He braces one arm on the mattress over my head and I slide my arms around his ribs, guiding him with soothing sounds. I don't dare let any fear cross my face, even though I'm aware that this will probably hurt. Not only has it been a while for me, Jim's definitely--large. I'm sure if I showed the slightest reluctance at this moment it could be—

Oh dear God! I clutch him, gasping as he pushes forward into me, and the hot deep stroke of him rubs every nerve ending in me, reaches nerves I've never known I had. Glorious! He groans, low and hot in my ear while I let my legs slither around his hips. I pull him into me again and suddenly we find a sex rhythm between us that works; sweetly, deeply, powerfully. The fur on his chest strokes my breasts, the hard flex of his stomach on mine enflames me. I kiss him with a new hunger, savoring the way he makes my body yearn for his; the wild understanding that Jim is now my lover pushes me over the edge once again. Within moments, hot lovely shock waves roll through me, and I hear him softly cry out my name, feel him cover my face with kisses while deep within me, fresh heat boils in a sensual flood of fulfillment.

His weight on me is wonderful. Lying here under him, feeling his breath on my neck and shoulder is all I need for the moment. My hands slide along his broad warm back, enjoying the feel of his muscles, the long shallow trench of his bare spine. I'm humming, I'm happy. He tries to shift off of me but I'm not having it, and cling to him.

Jim is mine.

"I'm crushing you—"he protests, but I shake my head and let my palms continue their exploration down his ribs to his hips, finally sliding to cup his backside, appreciating the nice muscularity of it. Lovely man.

I giggle. He grunts a little and shakes his head. Determinedly he shifts to one side, but since we're still joined I merely roll with him, keeping my upper thigh wrapped around his as I look up in to his eyes. There's not a lot of light now, but I can see his expression, and it's a twisted blend of tender circumspection. I smile, and his face softens.

I know him now.

"It's what we both needed, Jim. And it was . . . magnificent," I whisper reassuringly. The words are on his lips, and I know what he's going to blurt, but I kiss him before he can say anything, stop him from saying out loud what I know is all over his face at the moment.

I won't let him say anything now that he'll regret in the morning.

Instead, I reach for his hand and bring it to my chest, holding it there, letting him feel my heartbeat instead.

**BRASS**

Statistically speaking, there's no scale for what just happened. Guys speak of things from one to five or one to ten to categorize a woman's beauty or their sexual experiences, but in all honesty nothing on planet Earth is quantitative enough to cover this.

I made love to Heather, and I haven't got the capacity to put a description to it. The heat, the scent, the feel of her body giving into mine, her slick tightness, those little throbs, her moaning, all of it driving me right through to orgasm central, no stops, full throttle, baby.

I should be embarrassed as hell to put it like that, but it's the closest thing I can think of, and I mean it in the nicest way. Heather is not only a wonderful person, a brilliant woman and a worthy friend, she's also magnificent in bed. Wild, passionate, generous—Jesus.

I love her.

Old news. Just not something I've really honestly admitted to myself, much less her. But I'd be lying if I thought I could get up and walk away from what's just happened here between us. More than the sex, I'm talking about the astounding rightness of it all. The pain of losing Ellie isn't gone, but I can shift my focus off of it for a little while, find a sort of emotional harbor here with Heather in my arms. Ah, the warm luscious weight of her next to me is the best sort of nurturing comfort. I hold her, relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever.

I can't get over how little parts of her are. Delicate nose, petite ears; and that mouth . . . pursed or smiling, it doesn't matter, Heather's mouth was made for kissing, no doubt about it. The dimples are back at the corners of her mouth, deep and cute.

Gotta love that smile. It makes me feel alive again, sets off little points of heat all through me, but fatigue is catching up, and I'm already starting to drift off. Before I do, though, I kiss her again, and whisper against her lips.

**HEATHER**

It's been a very long time since I actually slept with someone; not only sexually, but physically. Fortunately it turns out that Jim is perfect to sleep with: warm, cuddly and only a light snorer. As it was, we were out for about five hours and I could have slept much longer if I hadn't had a sugar level check and an injection to do. I slipped out, and by the time I carefully got back into bed he was awake, rolling towards me, his expression warm and amused.

I wanted to laugh myself, well aware my hair was probably in a messy tangle, and I didn't have a single bit of makeup on. So much for the glamorous Lady Heather and her exotic charisma. But Jim tugged me into his arms and it didn't matter, not at all. Those big hands came up along my spine, and just like that he pulled me on top of him, making me squeal a bit.

Someone was definitely awake.

It was slower this time, and sweeter. Looking down at Jim, his eyes so dark and passionate, hit me hard right in the pit of my stomach. I've never been loved so . . . reverently, so sensually. He touched me as if I was made of Lalique glass, and every kiss was delicious. My body thrummed along on some wild current of desire, and it dawned on me that even while I was supposed to be the expert about most things sexual, Jim Brass knows a hell of a lot himself. Certainly enough to far outlast me this time, although I have to confess that collapsing on his chest gasping and sweaty as he groaned and filled me through and through still makes me shiver pleasurably.

And now I ache, but in a pleasing way, the sort of satisfying sensation unlike any other. Jim is asleep again, curled up at my side, head resting on my ribcage. I don't mind. I get to stroke his hair, which is short and brushy-tickly, and think about all sorts of things: I wonder about the scar across his shoulder and how he got it; whether or not I can call Pauline to open this evening; if Jim and I might even have a third encounter of the erotic kind before we get up--

This lovely night is an interlude of sorts; cathartic for Jim and his pain, wonderfully nurturing for me, but will it last? He and I have gotten this far by being vulnerable to each other, open and relaxed in a very private intimacy. I'm afraid of the morning, of that moment when he'll draw back and pull into his shell again because he feels too exposed to me. It would be so easy for both of us to dismiss tonight as the product of too little sleep and too much grief.

If it comes to that, I'll deal with it. I'll let him go, give him his dignity and regroup if I must. We Marezeks understand duty as well as love, and I'll never ever hold him to something he regrets even if it hurts . . .

No. That sounds far too noble for me, like something out of a TV movie of the week. No, I think the best plan is to go back to sleep. After all, I might need my rest.

**BRASS**

Not a dream. For one thing, I'm sleeping on the wet spot, which is pretty much a definite indicator of activities pleasurable. For another, I've got naked Heather in my arms. If this is a dream, and just a dream, I'm gonna cry when I actually wake up. Slowly, carefully I check out my security blanket and man, is she gorgeous. Heather doesn't need makeup to be a knockout. She doesn't need clothes, either, that I can swear to, but I don't think she'll let me talk her into running around naked too often.

How the hell did I get so lucky? Not through my good looks. Has to be the cooking. I lured her in with marinara and let fine dining win her over, landing me a sweetheart of a woman. Speaking of which, I seem to have an appetite again. Well, a few, but I need some food first, judging by the rumble of my stomach. I'm pretty sure I've got all the fixings for some waffles, and Heather deserves the best breakfast I can make, so I'll let her sleep in while I slip on some sweats, go pull the iron down from the cupboard over the fridge and heat it up.

In luck. Eggs, flour, milk, vanilla extract, salt, sugar and oil, blend it up in the right proportions, pour it out, set the bacon on, pour the orange juice . . . it's all in the timing. Some men prefer pancakes, but I go with waffles every time. I never burn them, unlike pancakes.

A pang hits me as I remember once making Ellie pancakes and forgetting the oil, having them weld themselves to the bottom of an old pre-Teflon pan until it was just easier to throw the whole thing away than scrub it out.

Ellie.

I look up just as Heather comes wandering in, yawning, her dark hair in a wild tangle around her shoulders. She's back in my shirt, with only two of the buttons done up, so a lot of sweet pale skin's showing, from long bare legs to the sexy hollows of her collarbones. Oh baby, talk about a wake up call. It's embarrassing how quickly parts of me are with the program here. Heather saunters over and she's fighting a grin since my situation's pretty damn obvious.

"Up early?"

"I was up late too."

"Poor man. Maybe you ought to sleep . . . in." she purrs, slipping her arms around me. I kiss her nose, then her mouth. This is Heather, warm, sweet and utterly grounded in the here and now.

"Six words for you, Sweetheart," I tell her. Heather looks up at me with those unforgettable eyes. "First three—Blood sugar fix."

"I bet I can guess the last three—bring the syrup?"

I shake my head, and oh so carefully drop my mouth to her ear, whispering what I know to be true, what I've felt and fought and found so perfectly now, over the last half a year.

"You're the one."

**See Chapter 11**


	11. 11

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.**

**ATTENTION: Rating has changed! This is now R rated.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Chapter 11  
**

**BRASS**

Vegas isn't exactly a homey kind of town--not the places I see, anyway--but it does have its beauties, and Lake Mead is one of them. It attracts zillions of tourists every year, but the locals love it too, water in the desert. Gorgeous. I didn't used to get out there much, besides going to my favorite restaurant, but that's changed.

I've always wanted to try this. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud. But the temptation has been there for years, ever since I found out that the Aladdin's kitchen puts these things together. Without someone to share it with, I didn't have an excuse.

Not a problem now.

They deliver, but I just told 'em I'd pick it up myself. Saves the carrying fee and it's on the way. I have a blanket in the back seat and a little cooler filled with diet sodas; the basket comes with a bottle of wine, but Heather can only have one glass and I'll keep it down to one myself. We're both working later anyway.

I pull up in front of Heather's place, feeling a little like the teenager I once was, though my car now falls into the "sensible" category rather than the "hot" one. Before I can even shut off the engine Heather's out the door, smiling all over her pretty face, and I have to just sigh and appreciate. She's wearing shorts.

Okay, they're long shorts--they nearly reach her knees--but they do show off the curves of her calves in just the right way. She has a bag in one hand that she tosses in the back seat before she drops down next to me.

"Hey, beautiful," I start to say, but her kiss cuts me off before I get past the B, and I don't mind at all. I slide one hand up to the back of her neck and enjoy myself.

When we pull back, I can't keep the grin off my face, and Heather doesn't look too displeased either. She fastens her seatbelt and gives me another grin. "So where are you taking me?"

It amazes me how she can make me feel playful. "That's for me to know and you to find out." I laugh at her moue and back out of the driveway.

We've been to the lake before, once for dinner and once just to walk around, but this time I'm headed for a cove that not so many people know about. One of the little-known side benefits of crime-fighting is finding out about nice places that aren't overrun by people, as long as you can ignore the fact that a crime took place there. I got over my squeamishness decades ago, and I doubt it'll bother Heather if she asks.

It takes a bit of scrambling to get down to the beach, but it's a pleasure helping Heather down the rocky hill, and once we're there, we have the little slice of shoreline all to ourselves. She spreads out the blanket under the old tree near the water, and I set down the basket, taking a minute to look around. The lake's shining in the afternoon sun, and there are boats out on the water, but none of them are nearby.

When I turn back to Heather, she's spreading sunscreen on her arms. She meets my gaze with an apologetic shrug. "Pale skin is part of the mystique," she explains, and I smirk.

"Then let me help you with that."

I kneel down behind her where she's sitting on the blanket. She's wearing a nice red tank top and her hair's in a ponytail, so I don't have to worry about getting the ointment in it. Reaching around her, I put my palms over the white smears on her arms and begin massaging them into her skin, enjoying the warmth of her in front of me and the fragrance of her hair. I spread the stuff up over her shoulders, rubbing it in slowly, then squirt a dab more into my hand to cover her back above the edge of her top, and the skin of her neck. As I slide my palm down over the base of her throat and across the tender skin below, I can't resist leaning into her, and she makes a low purring sound. "You're not playing fair," she murmurs.

"Who says I'm playing?" I retort. But much as I'd like to take this to its logical conclusion, this is too public a place. So I turn her to face me, and with the bittersweet memory of doing the same for a fairy-boned five-year-old, I anoint her cheekbones and the straight line of her nose.

She rewards me with a kiss. "Your turn," she says, taking back the bottle, but I shake my head.

"I don't need it, Heather, I'm pretty impervious already."

"Just your face then," she insists, and I let her pull off my sunglasses and apply the lotion. Another kiss lands on my chin, and then she's rummaging in the basket.

**HEATHER**

Who would have guessed that this man, who presents such a hardened image to the world, is a romantic at heart?

And who would guess that Lady Heather, she of the iron will and leather whip, would be such a sucker for him?

Not I...not if you asked me a year ago. But life has a way of changing one's mind.

Jim's version of a dawn picnic for night workers is delightful. I unpack the basket, shamelessly curious, and slap his hands away playfully when he tries laughingly to stop me. I love to watch him laugh, love it when he crinkles his eyes and shows his teeth in a moment of unguarded amusement.

The food looks scrumptious. There's paté and crackers, a salad of strawberries and blueberries, and cold roasted chicken with fresh rolls and butter. I recognize the house brand of wine; Jim must know how good the Aladdin's food is too.

He uncorks the bottle and pours, and I spread a little paté on a cracker and lift it to his mouth. He pretends to snap at me, and I squeal a bit, which makes him grin through the mouthful. That sets the tone for the afternoon--sensuality and play.

I don't get enough of either, and neither does he.

"Tell me something that nobody knows about you," I say, carefully stripping the skin from my chicken breast and licking my fingers. Lemon and pepper, mmm.

Jim spears a few berries on his fork. "Like what? Deep dark secrets?"

"Doesn't have to be," I demur. "Just something you've never told anyone."

"Hmm." His eyes narrow, and one hand rises absently to rub his chin while he thinks. I love to watch him thinking, too, to see that sharp intelligence at work.

"I took figure skating lessons as a kid," he says finally, and while his smile is still in place, I can sense a subtle shift in his emotions. He's pretending to keep it lighthearted, but part of Jim is still a little embarrassed at the memory.

The gift of his trust...it never fails to move me.

I give him an encouraging look. "This was before you were into hockey, I take it."

He shrugs, but the tension is easing off a little. "It's how I got hooked on hockey, actually. Before that it was football like all the other guys."

"So how did you end up on the ice in the first place?" I ask, nibbling at my chicken.

"I already knew how to skate, and one of the figure skating teachers saw me doing tricks on the ice. She talked my mom into it." He sets aside his empty dish and reaches for his own piece of chicken. "Didn't take me long to get out of it, though."

I lift a brow, and he chuckles. "I told my dad I'd rather play hockey," he explains. "That was that. I think he was kind of relieved."

I have to laugh along with him--not so much at the idea of a good fifties father wanting his son to play a more "manly" sport, but at the image of a little dark-haired mischief-maker speeding across the ice. Jim doesn't have a lot of photos on hand from his childhood, but the few I've seen fascinate me.

"Your turn," he says, pulling a roll apart.

"Hmm," I parrot, and we share another grin, but the fact that springs to mind will be an equal gift of trust.

"No one outside my family knows this," I say slowly, laying on the drama to disguise the quiver in my belly. I don't _think_ he'll laugh, but...

Jim takes a bite of his roll and gestures encouragingly, and I go on. "I was in a beauty pageant when I was eight."

His brows go up, and I can tell he's surprised. "I'm having a little trouble imagining that," he says mildly after a moment, and I shrug.

"It was my aunt's idea. Mother never would have bothered with something like that. But Aunt Anna had three boys and no daughters, and she thought it would be a great way for us to spend some time together."

For a moment I'm lost in the memory--being young and shy, but enjoying the attention, the pretty dresses and the makeup. And then learning just how tedious the whole thing could get--the endless waits, the hot lights, the merciless scrutiny.

"You didn't like it," Jim says softly, and I realize my expression must have given me away.

"I liked parts of it," I tell him honestly. "But not enough to keep going."

"Did you win anything?" His expression is only curious, and I shake my head.

"Not a thing. Aunt Anna was a little disappointed, I think." I sip my wine. "So when were you last on the ice?"

Jim sets down his chicken leg and reaches for a napkin. "It's been a while." He looks a little wistful, and a thought strikes me.

"We should go skating some time." I know Vegas has at least one rink.

His mouth quirks. "Do you know how?"

"Well, no." And we both laugh. "But I'm sure you can teach me."

**BRASS**

Can I teach her? Sure I can. And I have to admit that the idea of Heather helpless and giggling in my arms, cheeks pink with the cold, is a tempting image. "You'll get bruises," I warn, and she shrugs casually.

"That's what concealer is for."

"Okay, it's a date." I have to chuckle, wondering a little at the idea of the two of us--middle-aged and cynical--going on a date that would fit right into my teen years. But hey, I'll take it.

My teen years were never this good, anyway.

We spend a long time in the shade, nibbling at the food and teasing each other. Behind the sensual facade of Lady Heather is someone with a wicked sense of humor and a sweet evil grin, and it's a privilege to know her.

The sun's getting low but it's still warm, and I'm halfway tempted to stretch out next to her and take a nap. But Heather has other ideas. Pulling off her sandals, she stands up. "Let's go wading!"

I lie back and put my hands under my head. "Leeches," I say lazily, and she shoots me a dirty look.

"Nice try." She sashays down to the water and steps carefully into it, and I stay where I am for a while, admiring. For one thing, she keeps bending over.

Finally, though, I can't stand it any more, and I take off my own shoes and socks. Lucky me, I'm wearing shorts too.

The water's warmer than I expected, and Heather smiles at me as I walk slowly over, feeling my way along the sandy bottom. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."

"If I get any leeches you're pulling them off," I grumble, just to hear her laugh.

So we poke around, taking our time, looking at plants and letting minnows nibble our toes. The sun's closing in on the mountains when Heather picks up a small rock and gives me an appraising look. "Are you any good at skipping stones?"

I find one of my own and give her the look right back. "Hometown champion," I reply loftily. "My record's never been broken."

"Ooh, a challenge!" She bounces the rock in her palm to test its weight, and then there's that evil grin. "A competition's no good without a prize."

"Yeah? So what's my prize?"

"Better watch that ego, Captain, it might get...punctured," she purrs, then glances around conspiratorially before leaning in to whisper in my ear.

I feel my brows going up. "Seriously?"

She pulls back and nods, and I give her a slow grin of my own. "Now that's incentive."

"And what do I get if I win?" she asks, and I don't give it a moment's thought.

"Right back atcha, sweetheart." Heather laughs, and I add, "Twice."

I love it when she blushes.

**HEATHER**

I've said it before--I'm competitive. I hardly think Jim expects me to be the girlish wimpy type who will lose on purpose so her boyfriend will feel good for winning, but this is a bit trickier than I thought it would be. I'm competitive, and I'm also very good at this.

Oh, we've played games before, cards mostly though we branch out into Monopoly and backgammon every so often. It's give and take, both of us playing cutthroat but neither of us taking it too seriously, and usually we're pretty evenly matched.

Well, we're evenly matched again, but it's not quite so casual.

If there's one thing I understand, it's male egos. I handle them every night with an expert touch, inflating or deflating as the customer requires. I deal with female egos too, but they tend to run along different channels entirely.

We skip stones. We're still playing, on one level, but it's not a joke, we're really competing. And as we rack up successes and losses--bounces and distance and misfires--what I already knew becomes even clearer. I don't want Jim to lose, but I don't want to lose either. We hunt for stones along our little beach and compliment each other for particularly good throws, but we're both intent on the next turn, the next toss.

The sunset's gorgeous, and as the disk slips behind the peaks we're suddenly in shadow, running out of time to finish our game. I have three stones in my hand; Jim has two; without really saying anything, we decide that these will have to be our final tosses.

Our tiebreakers, in fact. For a moment I wonder what it would have been like if we'd grown up in the same town, and how a young Jim would have taken it if a pigtailed little girl had been his match in stone-skipping. Probably not well...

I make my toss. We're even, though the lead has shifted back and forth pretty constantly, and the beautiful clean four-bouncer puts me one ahead. Jim squints thoughtfully at the lake, and swings his arm in a careful arc, and my lead vanishes.

My second toss is a complete flub, sinking like...well, like a rock. I can see it's on the tip of Jim's tongue to offer me a do-over, but I wave him on. There's a funny solemnity to this now, almost as though we really are kids participating in a time-honored childish ritual. But it's also underlaid with the sensual promises we made each other, and that gives it a distinctly adult flavor.

Jim's last toss is a masterpiece--six bounces. That puts him one up, and he shoots me a glance that is half-apology, half-challenge, with just enough smugness in it to remind me he's human. On impulse, I stick out my tongue, and listen to him chuckle as I step forward.

It's a beauty of a throw if I do say so myself. The rounded rock speeds along, touching down on the surface and lifting off again like a meteor too impatient to land. Four skips--five--six--

A curve of dull silver as big as my forearm breaks up into the air, and my stone is gone, down the gullet of a fish that could probably take on most fishermen and win. It vanishes below, leaving only ripples, and Jim and I exchange glances, both of us slightly stunned.

"I think that's a tie," he says at last, his voice soft.

"The gods of the lake have spoken," I agree, and shiver. Twilight has arrived, and I suddenly realize that I'm chilled.

**BRASS **

I can see the goosebumps on Heather's skin, but I have no jacket to offer her, so instead I put an arm around her shoulders. "We should head back up the hill before it gets too dark," I say regretfully, and she nods.

But before we move to pack up the picnic, I pull her into my arms. I might not have a jacket, but there's more than one way to warm a person up.

Man, she's got a sweet mouth. I love the way she slides her hands up and plays with the hair on the back of my neck. I love the way she doesn't hesitate to rub up against me. I love the little sounds she makes when I kiss her.

By the time we pull apart, we're both a little too warm. Heather plants one more kiss on my chin--she seems to love it, though I don't for the life of me know why--and ducks away, gathering up the picnic stuff efficiently. I shake out the blanket and fold it up, then take the basket away from her. "You can carry the cooler," I tell her when she pouts. I'm all for equality, trust me--you can't work with the women I do and feel any different--but the fact is that guys are better built for hauling than gals. And it makes me feel better, anyway.

I stick the blanket under the arm carrying the basket, and take her hand, and together we scramble back up the hill to my car. The lights in the parking lot come on as I slam the trunk shut and climb into the driver's seat. Glancing at my watch, I sigh.

"We've still got an hour at least before work starts," I say. "Anything in particular you want to do?"

Heather shoots me a look I can only call smutty. "Well...the game was tied," she suggests, and if my attention wasn't fixed on her before it sure is now. But I shake my head.

"Sweetheart, even one of those prizes is going to take more than an hour."

She nods, blowing air into her bangs and looking a little frustrated, and I can understand that. I still feel a bit like a teenager--in a car at night with a really hot chick, but with a curfew looming up.

"I feel like I'm sixteen again," Heather comments, and I blink. "All anticipation and no follow-through."

It's weird, how our thoughts are the same. We look at each other, then at the back seat of my car. There's nothing on it but a newspaper; it would be a little cramped, but--

Heather raises her brows in one more challenge, and I start the engine. There has to be a dark corner in this parking lot somewhere.

**See Chapter 12**


	12. 12

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.**

**By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com**

**Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.**

**ATTENTION: Rating has changed! This is now R rated.**

**This is the final chapter, and we thank you very much for reading! If you would like to read further stories about Jim and Heather, please let us know. --Cincoflex & VRT**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Chapter 12  
**

**BRASS**

There are only three things I actually LIKE shopping for. Presents for other people, good books, and fresh produce. Everything else is just a pain, and even when I make lists for them it never works out well. I remember toilet paper but forget toothpaste. I'll have seven boxes of dishwashing soap, but no Baggies-you get the idea. Some people might consider it just part of having a Y chromosome, but I tend to think it's because I tend to prioritize-I focus on the last immediate concern and work backwards as best I can. It works for homicide investigation, but not for running a household.

But I manage, most of the time. Dolores and her sister handle a lot of the dry goods for me-I leave them money, they make sure I have paper towels and aluminum foil and that sort of thing. The perishables are up to me, so I take my time.

Nowadays though, shopping's a whole new adventure, thanks to Heather.

Heather. Ohhh boy. Heather, Heather, Heather. I haven't got a poetic bone in my body, but I'd sell my eyeteeth to be able to put her charms to music. The woman is amazing. Truly. Her smile, her laugh, the way she runs her fingers down my back in the shower-

Yeah, the shower. Suffice it to say, Heather under hot water is the stuff Penthouse letters are made of. Actually Heather anywhere is pretty much in the same mind-blowing category, intimate-wise.

I finally convinced her to relax enough to let me look her over properly, (which took some doing) and made me feel pretty special. Lady Heather might be willing to don scraps of leather and parade around, but Heather Marazek is actually . . . shy.

I can't get over how long she is. It's not a height thing, since I'm taller, but Heather's chassis is streamlined, like a well-designed sports car; when I touch her, I can feel her muscles working under that velvety skin. She's got a dusting of little freckles along her shoulder blades, and deep dimples at the base of her spine, perfect for kissing. A tiny line of white, barely noticeable, runs along the lower edge of her flat abdomen: hysterectomy scar. Another small jagged pink one lies along her left thigh. That one's the aftermath of red-hot kettle that she dropped on herself as a kid, she tells me.

I don't care about them though-scars are part and parcel of getting through life. I've got enough of my own anyway, and I pretend they add character, even though they're actually reminders of my mortality. They break up the monotony of my generally unspectacular physique. The only important thing I DO know about our bodies is that for some reason Heather likes mine enough to talk me into getting naked with her and I'm more than happy to accommodate.

It's amazing to come to this late-in-life sensuality. I suppose, I've never thought I'd have any sort of serious love life after fifty-God knows my parents never did, nor anyone else in my family. I figured the urge would just sort of fade away, lost among the aches and pains of aging when the spirit is still willing, but the flesh is lonely. I'd end up another bitter old retired cop whose best erotic years were behind him.

Goes to show you what I know.

**HEATHER**

I have come to love the sweetness of my weekends. For almost a year now, Fridays were the highlight of my month; the bright joy of meeting Jim for dinner made it easier to get through the six days between visits. Fridays meant laughing and cooking, arguing and smiling, movies, card games, dishes.

Companionship. Warmth. Love.

How I hated that moment when one of us would have to go, shooting reluctant glances at the door or the clock, knowing the burden of our day to day lives beckoned us away from this intimate freedom. If I were the one leaving, Jim would insist on walking me to my car. If Jim were the one going, he'd flash his lights to let me know he was thinking of me as he left. Silly little things, but they took on meaning between us, forged that link we both needed so very much.

I'd forgotten how amazing love can be. How the simple act of kissing, of dropping off to sleep with the lullaby of someone's heartbeat under your ear can fill you with such quiet joy. The personal jokes, the little caresses and lovely companionable silences. I've missed so much in the years, but Jim is changing all that.

He's amazingly old-fashioned at times. After our first night together he sent flowers. To the Dominion no less, three dozen American Beauty roses showcased in an Austrian crystal vase that I knew perfectly well probably set him back a substantial amount. A dozen velvety red roses for each act of passionate love that had passed between us.

I blushed like a schoolgirl and Pauline smiled the entire night.

Since then it's become our habit to spend our weekends together, with the understanding of an open door policy for the weeknights as we feel the need. For the first two weekends, we didn't actually leave the bed, except for necessities like the restroom and the kitchen. We laughed and ate and made love on my flannel sheets, acting like enthralled teenagers, and I found out that despite my long years of limited encounters I've still got plenty of passion, thank you.

I've discovered I've gotten ticklish, that I love the feel of Jim's chest hair, that it's amazingly nice to have your back scrubbed in the shower . . . and that on top of all those little discoveries; the thrill of loving your best friend is possibly the most wonderful of them all.

We both woke up on Saturday morning to the alarm. Normally we'd sleep in-working nights really alters your REM patterns-but today was special. We were going to make ratatouille, and for that we needed good fresh vegetables, which meant a trip to-

The Farmer's Market on Saguaro Square. For weeks Jim had been singing its praises and promising to take me and I've been looking forward to it. I managed to hold him at arm's length, which was terribly hard, but necessary if we were going to get out of the house on time. Jim grumbled, mostly for show, but I sensed that he was actually delighted about the trip. He commented that because the stew had to simmer, we'd just find something to do for a few hours in the afternoon.

Incorrigible.

I wear white jeans and a button-down sweater of pale blue, utterly delighted to be out of leather or spandex for the day. Normally I don't pay attention to my weekend wear, but with Jim around it's fun to play dress-up in a different context. My comfy sandals let my toes breathe, and just as I'm starting to work on my hair I see Jim come up behind me in the mirror.

"Let me," he rumbles, and I do. He's good, very gentle at separating the strands and twisting; before I know it, my braid is done, heavy and long, neatly banded with a blue scrunchie near the tip. He slides his hands onto my shoulders and we look at each other in the mirror.

"Faaabulouss," he intones with a push on the lisp to make me laugh. I preen a bit.

"Are there no end to your talents, dear man? Detective, chef, hairdresser-"The kiss on my neck makes me squeal and trail off. Jim is smirking at our reflections now, just peeking around the braid.

"-Stud. Yeah, I have talent to spare. Want to see my impersonations?"

That earns him a swat; the last time he tried to sound like Jimmy Stewart I laughed so hard I thought I'd ruptured something. Fortunately I had someone very close by willing to kiss any and all booboos, especially on my tummy.

"You're fun," tell him with a grin, reaching behind me to hug him. He merely laughs and kisses my neck again for good measure.

"That's me, life of the crime scene. Let's get moving, hon. I hear zucchini calling my name."

I double over again at that, gripping the counter while he smirks and waits for me to catch my breath.

"Jiiim, Jimmm, ve lonnnng to be in your recipe, chooooose usss" I drawl out in a terribly bad Bela Lugosi accent. He cracks up, finally, shaking his head and taking my hand, dragging me out of the bathroom.

We both try to sober up in the car, but it's a losing battle. He tells me a terrible joke about a priest and a parrot walking into a bar, and I retaliate with the worst knock-knock jokes I can remember, loving the way he patiently responds to each one, his mouth smirking before I even get to the punch lines.

Finally, in a moment when we're both laughed out, and settling into that companionable quiet, he reaches over and takes my hand. His is big, almost engulfing mine. I like that.

"Hey, did you remember to shoot up this morning?"

A flash of annoyance hits me at the same time a twinge of embarrassed amusement does; I bite my lip.

"Yes, MOM," I bat my eyes at him. He gives me a sidelong glance, and while he's still smiling, there's something there in his deep blue eyes, something a little hurt by my response. I feel instantly ashamed and tighten my grip on his fingers. After a second, he squeezes back.

"Sorry, Jim. I'm just not used to other people knowing, let alone checking on me about it."

"Yeah well, I just . . . worry," he admits in a low tone. "Part and parcel of the whole 'loving the hell out of you' thing."

I take a breath, and before I can change my mind, blurt out, "I'll show you how it's done, if you want to see what it's like."

His startled look makes me blush; it's tender and grateful, which is the sort of expression that makes me want to drag him off to bed and kiss him senseless.

"Yes." No hesitation, no squeamishness-he really does give a damn about this. About me. That thought makes my toes curl a little and I smirk as his fingers squeeze mine once more before he's forced to let go and get back to the business of safe driving.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously, Heather. It's important to me to get a handle on what this is to you, what I can help with."

We pull into a parking lot just outside a big red wooden barn, and I take a slow moment to undo my seatbelt, thinking about what Jim's just said, and how much it means to me.

**BRASS**

The market is in full swing as I steer Heather inside. Lots of strollers and young couples in Birkenstocks standing around weighing the merits of lentils over red beans. Somebody's New Age music is playing in the background, but it's instrumental so I ignore it as best I can. Heather parks her sunglasses on top of her head; it's a cute look on her and I make my appreciation known in a soft whistle. Heather purses those great lips of hers in mild disapproval, but I can see her blush.

"Behave-" comes her gentle chide. I make no such promise and wander over to the first stand in the open barn: peppers. There are some good ones here; red, green and yellow, and I'm already weighing a green one in my hand, trying to estimate how ripe it is. I've bought from this vendor before, so I know her crop is good, but a little pricey. Heather leans over my shoulder as I'm balancing the pepper on my palm.

"What do you think-about a C cup?" she asks sweetly. I fumble and drop the thing, trying not to laugh while Heather chooses a yellow pepper and inspects it carefully. I shoot her a warning look after I pick up the produce and dust it off.

"Hey, hey--you're not allowed to make cup size jokes-that's crossing the gender joke line, hon. Only guys can do those."

Her hands drop to her hips and I get a glare from those Pacific ocean eyes, oooooooh. Nice. I can see how she's got a knack for that dominatrix thing.

"Since when?"

"Since forever. Guys do cup size jokes, mother-in-law jokes, bar jokes, fart jokes, drunk jokes, good sex jokes and size jokes. It's all in the ultra secret handbook we're issued on our twelfth birthdays."

Heather looks a little miffed at this, but considers it for a while as I select three peppers, one of each color, and bag them up. As I move to the next vendor she sidles up to me.

"I lost my copy-so what do girls get to joke about?

"Boyfriends and or husbands, periods, bad sex, shoes, kids and blondes," I rattle back, well versed in the vagaries of women's humor. Back in my beat days I'd had two different female partners, and both of them were a practical education in gender studies. Heather shoots me a skeptical sidelong look.

"Blondes?" She queries. I nod.

"It's a statistical fact that more women tell blonde jokes than men," I assure her mildly. She perks up and leans closer whispering.

"How do you put a sparkle in a blonde's eye, Jim?"

"How?" I haven't heard this one before. Heather leans closer; I feel her breath on my neck, making other parts of me start seriously paying attention. Parts much lower down.

"Stick a flashlight in her ear-"comes the breathy reply. This earns her my patented eye roll, which doesn't fool her anymore. Heather is triumphant, and sails to the tomatoes display, swinging her hips just enough to insure I'm watching her. I would anyway, but the added pleasure of knowing what those hips can do . . . that's when I realize exactly how bad I have it for this woman.

It's not as scary as I thought it would be. Somehow, that first impression that of I had of Lady Heather, all Goth and mysterious, sensuality wrapped in black velvet and silver buckles is still there, but like a photo rather than a real person. The flesh and blood Heather Marazek slipped past my defenses with her Tupperware and DVD movies, with her soft voice and scent of lavender. I've made her laugh and seen her cry, held her and slept with her, and for all the work she does as the dark goddess of other men's fantasies, I'M the lucky bastard who gets to worship the soul of the woman, not just her outer form.

Back to tomatoes.

The display is one of those cutesy carts with the steepled sides, displaying bushel baskets. In my childhood a tomato was just a tomato, something to throw at a car or stomp into catsup, but in this century there are at least a dozen varieties here, all sizes, shapes and colors. Heather hefts a beefsteak up and eyes it like a crystal ball of deep scarlet. I shake my head.

"Not firm enough. We want a tomato that will simmer down and release flavor over the cooking time, not one that will mush up to nothing."

"You've got this down to a science, don't you?" Heather demands pertly. I nod. No point in pretending I don't; I've graduated from the culinary institute of hard knocks and have the burned fingers to prove it. Heather awaits my decision, preparing to play Sancho Panza to my kitchen Quixote by grabbing a paper bag. I inspect the offerings, taking my time.

Oh yes. Several beauties are destined for dinner, and I start handing them over to my co-chef. She keeps a straight face all the way up until the point where I take three in hand-and juggle them. Not expertly, but I keep them in the air for a few turns. Heather reaches out the bag and catches one, two, three with a papery 'thump' each time.

A few shoppers applaud, and I'm both embarrassed and amused. Heather shoots me a flirty look through her dark lashes.

"Oh I just love a man who can keep his balls moving-"she whispers and I have to hang onto the side of the cart until my strangled wheezing stops.

**HEATHER**

Jim is deeply regretting letting me look at the zucchini and cucumber display, but it's too late. I have a substantial example in one hand and am checking the surface for imperfections.

Slowly.

Stroking it.

Jim looks as if he wants to puree the thing with his glare alone. I pout.

"It's just a vegetable, calm down!" I tell him under my breath, trying not to grin at his annoyance. The twinkle in his eyes comes through and he gives a little sigh.

"Love it now, sure, but just remember I pack a serious cleaver."

"Oh I know, I know-"I purr, just to see him go pink around the ears. This shopping trip is the most fun I've had in years; teasing the chef could easily become a full-time job for me. Jim cocks his head and once more I'm the recipient of that tender glance, the one that makes my chest tighten a little. More than words, a look like that.

I set the zucchini in a paper bag and fish for two others, suddenly anxious to get back and start cooking. And not just for dinner. Jim scoops the bag up and adds it to the hand basket he's got, then his brows draw together.

"Dessert?"

I glance around the Market, thinking and rejecting as I scan-not in the mood for Halvah, cheesecake is too rich, Ah! My gaze takes in the luscious ripe mounds of dark glossy skinned cherries, and I know exactly what I can dazzle him with. Very Hungarian, very good stuff.

"Meggyleves," I murmur seductively, and saunter over to the display, snagging another paper bag as I do. Jim trails after me, his curiosity piqued as he watches me pick and sort through a pound of the best of the fruit there. The scent of them is heavenlysweet, taking me back through the years to my mother's kitchen.

"Meggy what?" he asks. I pop a cherry into my mouth slowly, nipping it between my front teeth in my best seductive manner. I've had practice in this, but it's more gratifying to see it work on Jim than anyone else. He locks in on the sight of me; I can see him swallow and blink for a moment, then let his gaze meet mine incandescently.

"Meggyleves Mas Modon, darling. A chilled fruit soup with cherries. Would you take mine?" I bat my eyes shamelessly, "Cherries, that is?"

Jim snags the bag from me, muttering something about rinsing the vegetables in a cold shower, but the corners of his mouth are tilting up, and I can feel his pleasure in this banter of ours, intimate and outrageous. Few people can hold their own with either of us, so it's a grand thing that we're willing to cut out the middlemen and just go after each other. A hand along my back steers me to the cashier, and Jim settles us in line, looking over the basket with a little frown of concentration.

"Peppers, tomatoes, zucchini and cherries. Not a bad haul-Do we need anything else?" I ask.

"We'll swing by Corti Brothers on the way home," he murmurs into my ear in that "We're-getting-a-bottle-of-wine" way that makes my stomach do flip flops.

**xxxx**

I've learned a lot about men by observation, interaction and inference. Men have much stronger territorial drives than women; it's intrinsic in their hairy, sweet, testosterone-driven personalities. Some men have studies, or workshops, or offices that are theirs and theirs alone. Mad scientists have their labs. Jim has-his kitchen.

It's not that he doesn't share; he does, very generously. But when we are at his house, in his kitchen, Jim Brass is very much in charge. And I don't mind. I know myself well enough to admit that it's nice to take a break from domination, and just let someone else do the cooking, so to speak. Working around Jim, taking his direction is-fun. He keeps it light, he makes sure to keep it a game instead of a conflict, and while there are challenges, they're always light-hearted and definitely suggestive.

Like now.

"Tell me again where in the recipe it says I have to take my top off?" I demand. Jim set his glass of wine down and slips behind me, pressing oh so nicely against my spine. His arms slip around my ribs and just like that I'm cradled by him.

"Common sense. All the chopping can get very messy, Heather, and there's only one apron. Since I'm using it, that means you need to practice a little preventative cooking here-"

Oh those strong sneaky hands, sliding up and under the hem of my sweater, gliding with unmistakable intent towards my brassiere. Give this man an inch, and he'll have you naked before you know it! I try to frown, but my skin is pebbly with goose bumps, and not the ones that come from being cold, either. Jim's nipping the shell of my ear.

"I guess tomatoes CAN get a little-gushy, "I concede. He makes an affirmative noise as he so generously tugs my sweater up.

"Absolutely. And the stains are really a bitch to get out-"

Off comes the sweater. I'm so glad I have on my blue satin underwire on, the one with thin little straps and the stretch lace. Does a great job of keeping everything were it should be, except Jim Brass, who draws in a sharp breath at the sight of it. Ah, he remembers peeking at this bra before I think-demurely I shrug because it's the sort of move that shows off my assets.

"Oooooh sweetheart," he breathes with such a degree of delight that I can't help but grin. Carefully I pull out of his embrace, pick up one of zucchini and poke him in the chest with it.

"Cook now, ogle later," I tell him with a growl. He looks at this nonweapon with a snort.

"Stop bringing your work home and hand me that cleaver-"he shoots back, and with that, we start to cook.

**BRASS**

The ratatouille is just starting to simmer. Perfection if I do say so myself-chopped, diced, sautéed and now ready to cook down into a savory blend of vegetables that will go flawlessly with the crusty loaf of sourdough bread and the bed of fluffy rice. I already know the wine's good too, and as I turn the heat down under the stew, I'm dying to turn it up under Heather.

I restrain myself just to watch her for a moment though as she stirs the sweet cream and cherries into a crock pot; and the sight of her long sexy spine is all the more alluring since it's practically bare. She wore the blue bra, just for me. Hey a guy knows these things, and that piece of lingerie is practically a telegram demanding that I go kiss her shoulders, so I do.

She turns to nuzzle my ear, and just like that, in one sweet intimate moment I feel something squeeze my chest with the kind of magic I've only felt twice in my lifetime.

I love her.

Simple as that.

Heather looks up through her dark lashes at me, those gorgeous lips trembling a little, so I kiss them, softly at first, and then much more deeply as the moment takes us, and I've got her in my hug, doing the full body press thing up against the counter. Forget the damn stew, the only thing I've got an appetite for is right here. Her silky arms slip around me and I cup her hips, lifting her onto the counter next to the crockpot before she even realizes what I've done.

"Jim-" she gasps, but I lay two fingers on her lips and brush her braid back. Heather's hands are already on the buttons down my front, plucking, touching in hungry fingerstrokes down my chest as the shirt opens. We kiss with slow deep flicks of tongue, tasting wine and cherries between us now, building to a nice head of steam. Clothes are shifting, dropping, getting out of the way.

I want to take this to the bedroom and do it right, but somehow I can't, not with Heather shimmying out of her jeans and skimpy blue panties that match that bra. This counter is just the right height--at the same time she slips free of her clothes and we don't need to say a thing. I slide my arms under her thighs, feeling the sleek bend of her spread knees resting on the crooks of my elbows. I cup her ass, tugging her to the edge of the counter.

Talk about having dessert first-

Heather grabs my bare hips and yanks me into her, making both of us groan nicely as I try like hell not to explode in sheer pleasure. Squeeze play, oh yeah-She arches up, hands locking behind my neck and sighs, rocking her hips against mine in a long slow ride as I take her in deep thrusts so wild that they threaten to melt my spine. Now's the time to say it, to show her I mean it, but I can't get the words out, not with so much sheer erotic power glowing through my body.

"H-H-Heather . . . "I try, honest to God, but she corkscrews her hips, long legs tightening around my waist and my brain's total mush now as I feel her body clenching around mine, her gorgeous chest bouncing. Heather's lost in pleasure, face tipped back, full mouth open in a soft moan as hot bliss ripples through her body against mine.

I hear her cry my name and damn it, I come. Hard.

But I say it, gasp the truth against her mouth when it happens and she sucks the three little words in, letting them mingle with her own declaration of love as we collapse a bit on the counter. Both of us are breathing hard, but grinning, and I adore the way Heather's bangs are curling around her pink face.

"I've . . . never done it in a kitchen before, Jim." She laughs up at me, brushing my temples with her fingertips. I'm trying not to gloat, but man it's tough when I feel like the Emperor of Las Vegas right now, so I kiss her forehead instead.

"It all comes back to the cooking, Sweetheart. You and I are the right ingredients, and all it took was some time to simmer." At any other time that would sound corny, even to me, but here and now, it's right. Heather laughs softly and her thighs tighten around my hips. Round two, my libido is demanding.

"My compliments to the chef then-"she purrs.

And I'm thinking, yeah, maybe it started small, but what Heather and I have in this golden moment is big enough for us, and who would have thought a homicide detective and a dominatrix would be able to look beyond the surface of who we seemed to be, to who we really are?

You can work on that a while-Heather and I have things to do--

**End.**


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